


ONE GIANT LEAP

by Slasherfem



Category: Star Trek/Quantum Leap Crossover
Genre: Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slasherfem/pseuds/Slasherfem
Summary: Sam Beckett takes a giant leap into the future.





	ONE GIANT LEAP

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Star Trek is the property of Paramount Studios, and Quantum Leap is the property of Bellisarius Productions. I’m not expecting any profit for me from the mixing of these two genres. Just a lot of fun for ST and sci-fi fans in particular! 
> 
> This story originally appeared in Side By Side Issue 11, fifteen years ago. I thought it was too good to gather dust in storage so I revised it slightly and posted it.

ONE 

When Doctor Samuel Beckett materialized at the end of his latest leap, he found himself sitting at a table before a triple-tiered chessboard. There was a chess piece in his right hand, a white pawn. As he stared at it, he noticed the gold braid on the sleeve of the golden yellow shirt he was wearing.

"Captain, it is your move," said a deep voice from the other side of the 3D chessboard.

Sam looked up and saw a dark-haired man with pointed ears and slanted eyebrows regarding him solemnly from across the table. He wore a shirt similar to the one Sam had on, except that his was blue. "Captain, it is your move," he repeated. "What is taking you so long?"

Sam was so startled that he slumped forward, resting his head on one arm. "Oh, boy!" he muttered, wondering where he was now and who he was talking to.

"Captain, is something wrong?" the pointy-eared man asked.

"I think my eyes are playing tricks on me," Sam said to himself.

"What sort of tricks?" asked the other man, proving that those long ears weren't just for ornamentation.

*My God, he heard me! I was only talking to myself!* Sam looked up, blinking in disbelief as he tried to accept what he saw before him. The alien-he couldn't be anything else-was now leaning toward him, his solemn face untroubled, but with an unmistakable look of concern in his dark eyes.

"Jim, is your head hurting you again?" he asked softly.

Sam seized the convenient excuse immediately. "Oh, yeah, right. My head's killing me." He sat up and clutched his head, and was surprised to feel a slight pain at the right temple. He guessed there was a bruise there from a recent injury, which would account for the pointy-eared man's concern.

The alien turned his head to one side and called out, "Doctor! Doctor McCoy!"

"What is it, Spock?" a raspy voice replied, followed by another man in a blue shirt. This one was human, in his late forties, with dark hair, blue eyes and a no-nonsense air about him.

"The captain appears to be suffering a mild relapse from his recent injury," Spock said to the doctor.

"Is he, now? Let's have a look." McCoy produced a strange instrument which emitted a high-pitched tone as he held it alongside Sam's head. The time traveling scientist tried to appear nonchalant as he was probed by a medical tricorder for the first time. Inwardly his heart and mind were racing as he studied his surroundings. He was sitting in a brightly-lit room filled with people, all wearing the same sort of uniform shirt he, Spock and McCoy had on, in red, blue and gold, worn over midcalf-length black trousers and black boots. Most of the women wore miniskirted dresses in the same colors. Everybody was either standing around chatting or sitting at tables with the same kind of weird chessboard or other, stranger-looking game boards. The walls were lined with machines that dispensed food and beverages at the push of a button. All the people had gold braid on their sleeves, from a single stripe to a double row. He was the only one with three gold stripes on his sleeves, the stripe in the center broken into a series of dots.

*I guess that's because I'm the captain. Now if I only knew my name, the name of my ship and what year this was.* Studying the futuristic device the doctor was using and the alien male sitting opposite, Sam's scrambled memory came up with a precedent. *Maybe this is a TV studio and I'm in another sci-fi TV show, like Captain Galaxy. If I am, then if I keep screwing up my lines the director is sure to come over and set me straight. In the meantime, I better keep improvising. Maybe this is a rehearsal and I can get away with a bit of ad-libbing.*

Doctor McCoy studied the small screen of his medical tricorder and said, "Nothing serious, Jim. That knock on the head you got this morning must still be making you dizzy. I told you to stay in bed a little longer."

"Hey, who's running this ship, Doctor?" Sam challenged him playfully.

"Oh, you are, Captain," McCoy replied, with sarcastic emphasis on the title. "But as your chief medical officer, I decide if you're fit to run it. Now why don't you concede the game to Spock and retire early?"

"And let Spock win?" Sam demanded, repeating the alien's name to make sure he had it right.

"Why not? He usually does," McCoy retorted. "Go on, Jim, scat! You're off duty now and there's no state of emergency. I'm sure we'll be able to manage very nicely without you for the rest of the evening."

"Okay, I know when I'm not wanted." Sam pushed himself away from the table and stood up. As he did so, he felt a wave of dizziness which made him clutch the edge of the table and let out another "Oh, boy!"

Spock was on his feet immediately. "Captain, are you all right?"

"Steady, Jim." The doctor had a hold of his left arm and was holding him up. Sam put his hand to his head again and rubbed the sore spot on his right temple with his eyes closed. A feeling of nausea accompanied the dizziness, making him realize that his head injury was all too real and couldn't possibly be part of the script.

"I'm all right," he said, trying not to lean on the doctor too hard. "Just give me a minute."

"You're in no shape to be navigating these decks on your own," McCoy informed him. "Spock, you better go with him. Make sure he gets to his quarters safely."

"Of course, Doctor." Sam felt his right arm taken in a firm, gentle grip. "Allow me to escort you, Captain."

"Thanks, Spock," Sam said, grateful for the helping hand. He waited until the dizziness passed and he could stand up straight, then headed toward what he hoped was the exit. He was relieved to find that Spock was guiding him there, as if he had little confidence in his captain's ability to find his way around his own ship in his present condition.

By the time they arrived at the captain's cabin, Sam knew this was no cheesy set on a sci-fi TV show. The corridors they had gone through were very real, as were the people they passed who murmured, "Good evening, sirs," or "Good evening, Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock," as they went by. Some of them, seeing Spock leading him, asked Sam if he was all right. Sam assured them that he was fine, "just a little dizzy from that bump on the head I got this morning," said with a modest smile as if he didn't want to make too much of it. Spock kept his silence, but Sam saw the concerned looks he kept giving him out of the corner of his eye. The ride on the turbolift was familiar enough to be reassuring, until Sam noticed that first they went up, then sideways. There was no button panel, Spock merely took hold of a black handgrip and said, "Deck Five," to activate it. Sam remained nonchalant so he wouldn't betray his uneasiness at these futuristic trappings.

*Wherever I am, it sure isn't in the past. For chrissake, Al, when are you going to get here and fill me in?* The inevitable arrival of his friend Admiral Albert Calavicci-or rather, his holographic image-was the only constant thing he could depend upon on his leaps through time. But Al didn't always arrive at the same time he did. When he did, it wasn't always easy to talk to him without attracting attention. As they approached the door of the captain's cabin, Sam hoped that Spock would be content to leave him there and say good night, so that he could talk to Al in private when he showed up.

The door slid open with a whoosh as they approached it. Still holding the captain's arm, Spock escorted him inside. As the door whooshed shut behind them, Spock led him past a desk with a computer on it and behind an ornate gold privacy screen to a narrow bed with a scarlet cover. "Do you require assistance undressing?" Spock asked.

"No thanks, Spock, I think I'm old enough to do that myself." Sam sank down upon the foot of the bed with relief. "You don't have to mother hen me."

"My feelings for you are far from motherly," Spock told him gravely. "Despite the popular belief that Vulcans have no feelings."

"Of course," Sam said as he filed that bit of knowledge away. *He's a Vulcan, apparently a race that takes itself very seriously.* "As if I didn't know that by now!" he added.

"You are the only human in this galaxy who knows me so well," Spock assured him. "Aside from my mother."

"Well, a boy's best friend is his mother," Sam couldn't resist saying. He added quickly, "But I do appreciate the honor of being your best friend."

"You know you are more than that, Jim." Spock stood by the bed looking down at him with those serious dark eyes. The intensity of his regard puzzled Sam, to say nothing of his words. A long silence stretched between them as he sat on the bed looking up at Spock, while Spock stood looking down at him. He never blinked, he just kept looking at him silently until Sam became so uneasy he was forced to break eye contact. He busied himself pulling one of his boots off.

"I appreciate your bringing me here, Spock. You can go now," he dismissed the Vulcan as courteously as possible.

Spock made no move to go. He asked gently in that deep-toned voice of his, "Jim, are you certain you do not require anything else of me tonight?"

"Not a thing!" Sam said cheerfully as he pulled his left boot off. He dropped it on the floor and reached for the other one.

"Not even assistance in undressing?"

"I said I could do it myself. Come on, Spock!" Sam was starting to get annoyed. "I told you to quit acting like a mother hen! I may be a bit dazed and confused, but I'm not helpless!"

"No, of course not. I ask forgiveness," Spock said contritely. "I know it is not logical for me to be so protective of a grown man, especially one who has proven time and time again that he can take care of himself. Nevertheless, I do feel protective of you. And the bond between us does entitle you to my protection."

Sam immediately regretted having been so abrupt with him. He and the captain were obviously close friends. Dropping his right boot beside the left, he reached for the Vulcan's hand. "I'm sorry, Spock," he said, looking up at him contritely. "I'm not rejecting you, I just don't want to be treated like an invalid. I'm fine, really. I just need a little more rest, like the doctor said." He squeezed Spock's hand as he smiled at him reassuringly.

Spock continued to regard him with that same unblinking stare, as if he were waiting for him to say something more. "Are you certain that you require nothing else from me tonight?" he persisted.

"No, Spock, I'm not selfish enough to tie you to my side all night just because I don't feel well."

"Then-you wish to sleep alone?" There was a puzzled expression on the solemn Vulcan face.

"Yes, I do!" Sam told him firmly. "If I need somebody to sit up with me, I'll ask Sickbay to send me a nurse."

"Very well, Jim. I shall leave you to your rest." Spock held out his other hand with two fingers extended. Sam stared at it for a moment before hesitantly reaching out to touch Spock's fingers with two of his own. As their fingers touched, he felt a sensation of warmth that went up his arm straight to his heart. He almost gasped, but remembered not to in time. If he and Spock were friends of long standing, such a sensation should not be a surprise to him.

"Good night, Jim." Spock let go of his hand reluctantly as he took his leave.

"Good night, Spock," Sam said as steadily as he could, still shaken by the sensation of warmth he'd gotten from touching the Vulcan's fingers. He waited until he heard the door open and shut before falling back on the bed. "Oh, boy!" he sighed.

TWO

While Sam Beckett was getting acquainted with the crew of the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, its' rightful captain found himself in the Waiting Room wearing Sam's white unitard, being greeted by a short, stocky, cheerful man with curly, graying hair, wearing a turquoise suit with a hot pink shirt and smoking a cigar.

"Where am I?" Captain Kirk demanded. "What is this place?"

"Don't worry, you're perfectly safe," Al assured him. "You're taking part in a great scientific experiment. My friend, Doctor Sam Beckett, has temporarily borrowed your body. Now he looks exactly like you to everyone around him, while to everyone here you look like him. Can you tell me about yourself and what you do, so I can tell him who he's supposed to be?"

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-" Kirk began, still uncertain whether he had fallen into hostile alien hands.

"Oh, a Navy man!" Al beamed as he stuck out his hand. "Put 'er there, Captain! I'm Admiral Albert Calavicci."

His enthusiastic friendliness made Kirk take his hand in spite of himself. "Er, nice to meet you, Admiral Calavicci," he said awkwardly, unaccustomed to such informality from a superior officer.

"Just call me Al. I gave up all that pomp and circumstance years ago, along with my uniform." Al indicated the flashy suit he had on with a grin. "So, what kind of ship is the ENTERPRISE? Destroyer, aircraft carrier, troop transport?"

Kirk looked bewildered. "She's not a wet navy ship, she's a Constitution-class starship."

"Starship?" Now it was Al's turn to look bewildered. "You mean a spaceship?"

"Yes, the United Starship ENTERPRISE."

Al's face had gone very pale. "Captain Kirk," he said slowly, "exactly what year are you from?" When Kirk told him, Al's jaw dropped. "Oh my God!" he wailed. "Sam's in the future! Gushie miscalculated again!"

"What do you mean?" Kirk was thoroughly bewildered by now.

"Sorry, Captain, but I gotta go find our resident mad scientist and chew him out. Please wait here for me." Al ran out of the Waiting Room. As the door closed behind him, Kirk heard him yelling, "Gushie! Gushie, you screwed up again!"

THREE

By the time Al finally showed up, Doctor Beckett had thoroughly explored Captain Kirk's cabin. He had also discovered how to use the automated shower stall and where Kirk kept the Saurian brandy. When Al arrived, he found him sitting at the captain's desk in a red silk robe, a half-filled brandy snifter at his elbow, using the computer.

"Hi, Al," Sam said absent-mindedly as he stared at the monitor screen with a scholar's fascination.

"'Hi, Al?' Is that all you have to say, after I busted my butt to find you?" Al said indignantly. "Do you have any idea where you are and how long it took us to locate you?"

"Yes, I'm in the 23rd Century, aboard a Constitution-class starship with a crew of 430 people, at least one-third of who are aliens." Sam finally looked up at his friend, a happy smile on his face. "Al, I've seen the future and it's wonderful! Do you know that Earth's finally conquered the problems of overpopulation, homelessness, hunger and poverty? That we have colonies on as many as 30 planets? And we're members of the United Federation of Planets, dedicated to friendship and trade between other worlds?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Al waved aside all these wonders with the air of one who's heard it all before. "Captain Kirk told me all about it in the Waiting Room."

"Oh, I already know who he is. I mean, who I am. I just asked the computer to access the personnel records." He turned the monitor screen toward Al, his face shining with excitement. "Look at all I found out about myself and my crew."

Al squinted at the screen and saw it was split horizontally in three, showing photos of Kirk, Spock and McCoy, accompanied by a brief history of their careers in Starfleet. "So you already know who you're supposed to be and who these other two guys are?"

"You bet! Would you believe James Tiberius Kirk is the youngest man ever to be made a Starfleet captain? His father was in Starfleet too; in fact, he comes from a long line of heroic explorers and scientists."

"Sam, do you know this guy's personal background?" Al asked.

"Commander Spock is the ship's first officer and science officer; he's half human and half Vulcan," Sam went on excitedly. "Vulcans are an alien race devoted to pure logic and the pursuit of knowledge. They're supposed to be cold and emotionless, but they're also known for their devotion to personal and family ties."

"He's also devoted to Captain Kirk, Sam," Al told him. "In fact, he-"

"He's his best friend. I know, Al. They have a long-standing relationship, going back to when Kirk first took command of this ship three years ago. He's also very close to Doctor Leonard McCoy, the ship's surgeon, but he's a lot closer to Spock. Most of their adventures have been together. They've saved each other's lives over and over again, Al. Is that friendship or what?"

Al was starting to look uncomfortable. "Uh, Sam, the computer can only tell you the official story. It doesn't fill you in on personal details from Kirk's private life, like I can."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Al! Here I am running on about Kirk's heroic career while you're waiting to tell me what I need to know about his personal life. Go on, I'm listening." Sam leaned back in the chair and sipped his brandy.

Al suddenly became very uneasy, fidgeting with his cigar as he stood shuffling his turquoise loafers on the carpet. "First things first," he mumbled. "I guess it's better if I tell you right away."

"Tell me what?"

"Well, for starters, Kirk is bisexual."

"So?"

"So he's got quite a reputation with the ladies. But for the last two years he's been seriously involved with a member of his crew. And I mean seriously involved."

"Who is she?"

"He is Mr. Spock, Kirk's first officer and science officer. They're lovers, Sam."

"What?" Sam looked like a deer caught in the headlights as he stared at his friend. "Kirk and Spock are lovers?!?"

"That's right."

"Oh, boy!" Sam took a big gulp of brandy. "That explains why he was hanging around so long."

"Who was?"

"Spock! He brought me here after I leaped into the ship's Rec Room and freaked out at the sight of him. Doctor McCoy examined me with this weird-looking instrument and said I was still dizzy from a recent head injury. He told me I needed rest and asked Spock to escort me here."

"Kirk did have an accident this morning in the Engineering Section. He told me about it when I noticed he kept rubbing his head here." Al pointed to his right temple with his cigar.

"I found out I had a bruise there when I put my head in my hands down in the Rec Room. I thought my dizziness was just the usual disorientation from the leap, but I guess my host body's injury must have been a contributing factor. Anyway, Spock brought me here and kept hanging around until I dismissed him. I didn't understand why he kept looking at me so-so intently, or why he kept asking me if I needed anything else from him tonight. Now I know why!" Sam's expression was not one of disgust, as would be expected of a straight man who's just realized he's been on the receiving end of a homosexual advance, but of pity. "How could I be so dense? Of course the poor guy wanted to spend some time comforting his confused and injured lover. And I rejected him, brushed him off as if he was just a-a-"

"A good friend who was being overly concerned?" Al could identify with that role, having been in it many times himself.

"Exactly! What am I gonna do, Al? I can't make love with Spock, I've never been with a man before! Or have I?" Sam looked at his friend hopefully. "Al, do you remember if I've been with a man before? You remember my own past so much better than I do. Did I ever tell you if I'd had a homosexual experience?"

Al busied himself lighting his cigar, which had gone out, while he stood in thought. "No, Sam," he finally said, "you never told me you had been with another man."

"Oh, great! Here I am in the body of a starship captain who's the lover of an alien male and I don't even know my way around the body of a human male! Talk about one giant leap for mankind!"

"Come on, Sam, you're acting like a nervous virgin on her wedding night!" Al said impatiently. "Of course you know your way around a man's body, you were born in one! There's not that much difference between making love to a woman and making love to a man. Just think about what pleases you and how you'd like someone to do it to you."

"I hope you're right, Al. I can't keep refusing Spock. He's bound to get suspicious if I don't-" Sam blushed like a shy schoolboy. "If I don't let him share my bed."

"Kirk says they're very close," Al told him, studying the glowing end of his cigar as he spoke. "He and Spock have been bondmates for two years now and-"

"Bondmates?"

"Pledged lovers who share a mental bond," Al explained. "On Vulcan, such a relationship is considered the legal equivalent of a common-law marriage, whether it's between a man and a woman,  
two men, or two women. Anyway, Kirk and Spock have adjoining cabins and share a bathroom. It's traditional on a starship for the command team to be housed close together, so they can consult with each other at any hour of the day or night."

"Don't Starfleet regulations forbid, ah, fraternizing between the ranks?" Sam asked awkwardly.

"Apparently the military code of conduct has become less rigid since our day. What you do during your off-duty time is your own business, as long as whoever you do it with is a consenting adult, and you're not using your rank to force him or her into bed." 

"Well, that's a relief!" said Sam. "Does the crew know about our relationship?"

"It's kind of an open secret. Those who need to know, do know. Like Doctor McCoy and your other department heads. But you always behave discreetly in public."

"Well, I would anyway if I'm an officer and a gentleman."

"You've always been a gentleman, Sam," Al told him with a smile. "Even when you're not an officer."

"Well, thank you." Sam lifted his glass in a toast and took another sip. Putting it down on the desk, he let out a sigh. "Guess I'm just going to have to play this one by ear. Maybe I can use my head injury as an excuse to sleep alone for now."

"Sure, for the time being. But if Spock becomes insistent, be careful how you refuse him. For one thing, he's a lot stronger than you. Kirk told me the average Vulcan male is at least four times stronger than the average human male. Not that he'd ever use that strength on you," Al assured him hastily. "He also said that Spock loves him too much to ever force sex on him. But I got the impression that he wouldn't need to use force."

"What do you mean?"

Al grinned. "I mean our Mr. Spock is a very determined man. Once he's made up his mind he wants something, he doesn't stop until he gets it. Whether it's a chemical reaction in the lab, a new gadget he's working on, or a night with his bondmate. If you say no, he'll just keep working on you until he's, ah, worn down your resistance." Al wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he twiddled his cigar, like Groucho Marx. "According to Kirk, Spock's the kind of guy who's pretty hard to resist. Kind of like me," he couldn't help adding.

Sam smiled, accustomed to his friend's macho boasting. "I know how irresistible you are to the ladies. But it's going to take more than sweet talk and a few kisses to wear me down."

"Wait until he kisses you, Sam." Al grinned again, remembering Kirk's blushing face as he attempted to describe the physical side of his relationship with his Vulcan bondmate. "Even a straight-arrow guy like you might find it pretty hard to say no. There's also the mental thing."

"What mental thing?"

"The 'bond' in 'bondmate' comes from the fact that Vulcans join minds as well as bodies when they mate. So if he gets you in a clinch, don't let him put his fingers on your face. Vulcans are touch-telepaths; they can mindmeld with any intelligent being just by touching their faces. Seems there are certain pressure points on your face, in this area here-" Al spread his fingers over his left cheek in a close approximation of a mindmeld.  
"-that lead to the psi centers of your brain. All adult Vulcans know how to mindmeld. They used to use it centuries ago to interrogate prisoners of war, before they became pacifists. Nowadays it's used mainly by doctors, to treat traumatized and comatose patients, and by bondmates, to speak to each other privately and share personal feelings.

"Vulcans also don't approve of public displays of affection and they're always in complete control of their emotions, which has led to the stereotype that they have no feelings. But they do. Believe me, they do. In fact, Spock's feelings for Kirk are so intense, Kirk tells me they've rarely spent a night apart since they were bonded."

Sam gulped and said, "Oh, boy!", took a big swallow of brandy and sat there looking scared. "What am I going to do, Al?"

"The only thing you can do," said Al with a shrug. "Tell him you've got a headache."

"Did you ever believe any of your ex-wives when they used that excuse?"

"Only the first few times. When they started getting headaches every night, I knew the marriage was over. But it isn't just Kirk's relationship with Spock you have to worry about."

"Okay," Sam sighed. "What else do I have to worry about?"

Al pulled out his handlink. "First you gotta help me link Ziggy up with the ship's computer, so she can find out what your orders from Starfleet are. You've leaped two hundred years into the future, she can't scan records that don't exist yet."

"How can I link them up? You're a hologram, you don't exist in this time frame!"

"Ziggy says you just have to order the ship's computer to retrieve all communications from Starfleet for the last 48 hours and flash feed them across the screen. Oh, she also wants Captain Kirk's family history, right up to our time line. I'll hold this up to the screen so she can read and record the info."

"Of course! Why didn't I think of that, it's so simple!" Sam addressed the computer on the captain's desk. "Computer, retrieve all communications from Starfleet for the last 48 hours. Also trace Captain Kirk's family history back to the year 1999. Add to request for Starfleet communications and flash feed all information across monitor."

"Working," said the computer in a mechanized, pseudo-feminine voice. A low humming followed. After a few moments it said, "Records accessed. Stand by for flash feed of all information requested." Al held up his handlink to the computer screen as it beeped and whirled. Ziggy let out a few beeps and whirls of her own as she prepared to receive the data.

A pageful of words appeared on the monitor, covering the entire screen. It clicked on and off, revealing a new page of equal or shorter length each time, faster than the human eye could follow, like subliminal messages. Along with the words came fleeting images of photographs, marriage licenses and birth certificates as Kirk's family tree was traced back to Sam's time. The collage of images made both men dizzy, so they looked away from the screen until the computer finally let out a beep and said, "Flash feed complete."

"Did you get all that, Ziggy?" Al asked. Ziggy also let out a beep, one that sounded suspiciously like a belch. Al patted the handlink and said, "Take your time, babe." He looked up at Sam. "It's gonna take her a while to process all of that. First she wants to see if you and Kirk are related. You remember when you leaped back to that Civil War soldier who turned out to be your great-grandfather?"

"I sure do!" said Sam, remembering the awe he felt upon discovering that his great-grandmother's slave was Martin Luther King's grandfather.

"Well, since it's not possible for you to leap into anybody who wasn't alive during your lifetime, unless you're related by blood, Ziggy believes this may be a similar case. You see, Gushie was screwing around with the chronological settings in the Quantum Leap Accelerator, trying to help you get back by estimating the date when we'd finally finish working out the bugs in it. He got the idea to set the controls a little ahead of the actual date, so you'd overshoot it and they'd be able to send you back on the day after you left. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way."

"Obviously," said Sam dryly.

Ziggy chose that moment to let out a triumphant beep. Al responded quickly, pushing the right buttons so she could feed him the data she'd come up with. After studying it for several minutes, he got a big grin on his face. "Well, what do you know? Turns out you and Captain Kirk are related, Sam. According to Ziggy, you're his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather." Al paused, frowning thoughtfully as he counted on his fingers. "Better add one more 'great' to that."

"But Al, how can Kirk and I be related? I don't remember having any kids with Donna." Sam had only recently remembered that he had a wife.

"Maybe they haven't been born yet. You'll probably have a whole bunch of kids together after you get back," Al told him reassuringly.

"Suppose Kirk's ancestor turns out to be Sammy Jo's kid?" Sam asked, referring to the daughter he'd fathered on one of his leaps, now a scientist on the Quantum Leap Project.

"It'll still be the same bloodline, won't it? Relax, Sam! The important thing is that you and James T. Kirk are related by blood, which is why you were able to leap into him when you overshot the date that Gushie estimated we would finish working on the Quantum Leap Accelerator."

"Okay, now we know how I got here," said Sam impatiently. "Now can you tell me why I'm here?"

"How about it, Ziggy?" Al inquired of his handlink. The response was a series of bleeps and bloops which caused Al to smack the link repeatedly until it settled down and hummed steadily. Then it began feeding Al the information.

"I'm getting something," he told Sam. "Looks like a memo from Starfleet. 'To Captain James T. Kirk, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, from Admiral Nogura, Starfleet Command, Stardate 9405.28'--that's two days ago," Al said helpfully. He read silently for a few more minutes before continuing.

"According to this, you're supposed to take the ENTERPRISE to a newly discovered planet in this sector of space, to see if the inhabitants are eligible for membership in the United Federation of Planets. This new planet has been named Lazarus, because when the first Federation survey team discovered it, they thought it was a dead world. They couldn't find any higher life forms on the surface, which is frozen solid. Just large, furry carnivores chasing and eating small, furry carnivores, but no people.

"Then they found an underground hot spring, which led them to an underground steam bath filled with people. That's where all the people went five hundred years ago, when their planet experienced a nuclear winter. They're all living underground now, in a series of tunnels they've dug out through the centuries, heated by the hot springs. They'd love to move back up to the surface, but they need help making it fit for people to live, what with the extreme cold and the hungry animals. If they join the Federation, they'll be given access to Federation science and technology to restore their ruined ecology and reshape their planet. But first you have to find out what caused the nuclear winter."

"That sounds more like Spock's forte than mine," Sam pointed out. "He's the ship's science officer. I'm just the captain."

"True, but the question of Lazarus receiving Federation membership or not depends upon your report. You have to find out what caused the nuclear winter, if it's likely to happen again, whether the Lazareans are capable of understanding and using Federation technology, and so on and so on." Al waved his cigar in the air dismissively. "But don't forget the Prime Directive."

"What's the Prime Directive?"

"It's the supreme law that all members of the Federation must obey. When you come in contact with a new race, you're not allowed to interfere with their traditional way of life, their laws and customs, the way they've always done things. At least not until they've agreed to join the Federation. Then they're entitled to as much help as you can give them, whether it's medical assistance or technology. But until they do, you can't do anything to upset the balance of power."

"How? Give me an example," Sam urged.

"Well..." Al scratched his head as he studied the data on his handlink. "Let's say you send a landing party down to a primitive world where hundreds of people are dying from an epidemic, flood, fire or famine. Then you're free to offer them food or medicine, because those are acts of nature requiring humanitarian aid. But if those people are dying because there's a feud going on between two rival houses trying to claim the kingship, you have to back off, because that's local politics. Ditto if people are being tortured and burned at the stake for their religious beliefs."

"So in the name of non-interference, anything goes? What about infanticide?"

Al shrugged. "It's their world and their babies. If it's local custom to sacrifice their firstborn to their god, you can't interfere. You can protest as much as you like, but you can't take any active part in stopping it." The handlink let out a little beep to get his attention. He studied it closely. "Unless," he added, "you should discover that the god they're sacrificing to is really a mad scientist who uses babies as experimental subjects, or an alien creature that lives on humanoid flesh. Then you can tell the people what's going on and let them decide if they want to stop it."

"I see. So I must obey the Prime Directive at all times, unless there are lives in the balance." Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, I can live with that." 

The expression on his face made Al look at him suspiciously. "Sam, I hope you're not thinking of messing with the Prime Directive."

"Who, me?" Sam said innocently.

"I'm warning you, Sam, don't do it! Your young descendent has a reputation for playing fast and loose with the Prime Directive. He's considered a maverick by Starfleet Command, someone who doesn't always follow orders. They've put up with it this long because he's so damn good at what he does. But he's made a lot of enemies along the way, not all of them aliens. Some of the higher-ups at Starfleet are just waiting for him to make one big mistake, so they can come down on him like a ton of bricks. I like this guy, Sam; don't screw it up for him! He plays a mean game of chess, and when it comes to principals he's as upright as you are, without being a prig about it."

"Well, it's nice to see my principals are hereditary too," Sam said with a smile. "Don't worry, Al, I promise not to do anything that will endanger Kirk's career."

"You'd better not! Now get a good night's sleep. I'll see you after you've landed on Lazarus." Al pushed a button on his handlink which opened a door in the air behind him. He stepped through it and it disappeared behind him.

Sam sighed, heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

FOUR

In the bathroom he found an old-fashioned red toothbrush in a glass, along with a brush and comb set of dark, polished wood with the initials "JTK" engraved in gold. As he brushed his teeth, Sam studied his reflection in the mirror. Or rather, Jim Kirk's reflection. He saw a man in his early thirties, a little shorter than himself but broad-shouldered and stocky in built, with dark blond hair, hazel eyes, a determined chin and a definite air of command about him. 

*Yep, he sure looks like someone who's accustomed to command,* Sam thought. *The sort of man who's used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed. Not the kind of man who would suffer fools gladly, especially high-ranking, desk-bound fools who think they know better than officers in the field.* Sam could sympathize with enlisted men who bucked orders, having a friend like Al who frequently clashed with his superiors. Studying Kirk's face, he could see why someone as quiet and reserved as Spock would be drawn to him. The man was positively charismatic, the sort of man whom others would trust and follow without a moment's hesitation. 

After rinsing out his mouth with a green, minty-flavored mouthwash, Sam rinsed and replaced all the oral hygiene supplies. He then reached up to brush back the lock of hair that kept falling over his face, pausing to examine the dark, bluish-purple bruise at his right temple. *Was this really an accident?* he wondered. *Or was someone trying to get Jim Kirk out of the way? Al said he had made a lot of enemies over the years, not all of them aliens. Could someone in Starfleet be trying to make sure that he fails this mission? Or someone else with an interest in the planet Lazarus?* But who could possibly be interested in the frozen ice ball of a world Al had described, badly enough to kill Kirk for it? Sam stared at his borrowed reflection in the mirror and wondered...

A dark shadow appeared in the mirror behind his reflection as a deep voice said, "Jim?" Sam jumped and whirled around to find Spock right behind him.

"Damn it, Spock, don't do that!" he said angrily.

"My apologies, Jim. I did not mean to startle you." The Vulcan wore nothing but a black silk robe similar to the red one Sam wore. Like Sam's it crisscrossed at the chest, revealing a generous portion of fine, black chest hair. "The hour is late. Why are you still awake?"

"I couldn't sleep because of this--" Sam gestured to the bruise on his head. "So I came in here looking for something to relieve the pain."

"Are McCoy's pills no longer effective?"

"Oh, sure they are. At least they would be if I could find them!" Sam said, laughing as if at his own absentmindedness.

"If you have misplaced your medication, I would be willing to relieve your pain." Spock moved a little closer as he reached for the human's face with his right hand.

Remembering that Vulcans were touch telepaths, Sam grabbed his hand before he could touch his face. "No, Spock! Don't do that!"

"Why not?" A hurt look appeared in the Vulcan's dark eyes, which made Sam feel terrible. "You are injured. I only wish to ease your pain."

"Yes, I know you do," Sam told him as he took Spock's hand in both of his and squeezed it affectionately. "I'm not rejecting you, Spock, I just don't want you to waste your psychic energy on a small injury like this. Save it for something serious."

"Very well, Jim." Spock laid his free hand on top of Sam's as he regarded him lovingly. "Forgive me for being overly concerned. It is just that, since your accident this morning, you seem to be different somehow."

"Different? How different?" Sam asked, as casually as possible.

"More forgetful. Absent-minded, if you will."

"Oh, that. Yes, I do seem to be suffering some short term memory loss." Sam saw a golden opportunity to get more information about Kirk's accident. "I'm still a little fuzzy about the details of my accident. You were there too, weren't you?"

"Of course, Jim. I got to Engineering within 3.5 minutes after Mr. Scott notified me of your accident."

Sam remembered in time that Scott was the ship's chief engineer. "Yes, of course Scott was there. Now could you fill me in on some of the details? I need them for my personal log," Sam told him, congratulating himself for thinking of such an ingenious excuse.

"Of course, Jim," Spock repeated as he regarded him warmly. "What are you having difficulty remembering?"

"Well, for starters, what time was it when it happened? Before or after lunch?"

"It was exactly 1100 hours when you went down to Engineering to inspect the weapons array. Ten minutes before your arrival, Lieutenant Stiles began performing maintenance on the photon torpedo tubes, along with one of Mr. Scott's engineering assistants. While they were working, Stiles sent the other man to fetch some tetralubrisol. On his way back, he spilled some of the lubricant on the deck. Stiles ordered him to clean it up and continued working. Apparently the young man did not comply with his order soon enough. You arrived before he had cleaned up the mess, slipped in the puddle of lubricant and fell, hitting your head against the weapons console."

"Oh, yes, now I remember. That clumsy kid, what was his name again?"

"Ensign Enrico Ciccone. I have already put him on report, of course. Upon my arrival, Mr. Scott was giving him a severe reprimand, to which he responded with a disgraceful emotional display, quite juvenile in nature."

"You mean Scott had the poor kid in tears?" Sam felt sorry for the unfortunate ensign, who probably thought that he had killed his captain. 

"Ensign Ciccone certainly appeared to be on the verge of tears while Scott was reprimanding him in his usual forthright way. His Scottish accent was so pronounced that I could barely understand him, and his tone so hostile that when Doctor McCoy arrived shortly afterwards, he felt it necessary to remark, 'Don't eat the poor kid, Scotty, just put him in irons.' The good doctor has always been inclined to be indulgent to the young and tolerant of their mistakes. But I do not consider it necessary to waste sympathy on a young crewmember whose carelessness has caused an injury to his captain."

"Especially when the captain is your bondmate?" Sam asked.

"Exactly," Spock agreed without a trace of embarrassment. "Besides, I was too busy tending to you to interfere with Mr. Scott's discipline of his staff. While I was waiting for McCoy to arrive--which seemed to take longer than usual--I was holding your head in my lap, scanning you for possible brain damage. As I was doing so, I looked up to see Stiles regarding us in a hostile manner."

"Does he know we're bondmates?" asked Sam, trying to remember if Stiles was a department head from his brief scan of the crew roster.

"Lieutenant Stiles has been aware of our relationship since our return from Vulcan last year. He has made no secret of his disapproval, though he has been able to maintain a veneer of courtesy when he addresses us. I am uncertain whether he disapproves of your choice of a life partner because I am male or because I am Vulcan."

"Well, that's his problem!" Sam was surprised and disappointed to find that such bigoted attitudes still existed in this century. "Just what did Mr. Stiles have to say for himself, anyway?"

"I asked him if he had witnessed the accident. He said no, but admitted that he might have been partly responsible for it, for failing to see that his order to clean up the spilled lubricant was carried out. When I asked him why he had not done so, his reply bordered on insubordination. He said, 'Because I was too busy doing my own work to see that Ciccone did his. I'm not a hands-on kind of officer, like some people.' The way he was looking at me--at us, Jim," Spock told him with such quiet intensity that Sam knew he was very angry, "left me in no doubt of his meaning."

"Forget him," Sam said, putting an arm around his shoulders and squeezing comfortingly. "The guy's a jerk. At least we know it was an honest accident."

"True," said Spock. Sam could feel him relaxing beneath his arm, which made him feel better. "Were we anywhere near Klingon space, I would suspect one of their agents of arranging this accident. Had it been more serious, it would have resulted in your death or incapacitation, long enough to delay the meeting with the people of Lazarus."

"What reason would anybody have for delaying the meeting?"

"I do not know. But do you not find it extremely coincidental that such an event should occur on the eve of your making first contact with a new race? One being considered for membership in the Federation?"

"I'm sure it's completely coincidental," said Sam as a nagging little doubt spoke up in the back of his mind. *Or was it?*

"Nevertheless, I would prefer you did not go anywhere unescorted for the time being. Either I or someone from Security should accompany you at all times." 

Sam sighed as he pictured himself being followed everywhere by the red-shirted Security guards, even into the bathroom. "Come on, Spock! Let's not get carried away."

"I wish you would take this more seriously, Jim." Spock sounded almost cross with him. "We are discussing a possible threat to your life. An event which would cause serious repercussions for the Federation, to say nothing of myself."

"I know, I know!" Sam hugged him comfortingly. "Tell you what, you can be part of the landing party tomorrow, so we don't have to take along any extra Security personnel."

"I thought we agreed that I was to remain on board?"

"Not this time." Sam took him by the shoulders as he looked him earnestly in the face. "If someone is out to get me, I want you by my side. That should increase the odds in my favor considerably."

"Very well, Jim. You know I can deny you nothing." Spock pulled him close and kissed him. Sam managed not to flinch at the touch of a man's lips on his. He let Spock hold him and kiss him, gradually relaxing against the strong, warm body pressed against his. 

A feeling of deja vu came over Sam as Spock held him. *I feel like I've done this before. When have I done this before? I know I've leaped into a lot of women, and some of them had husbands or lovers who kissed them. But this doesn't feel the same. It's more like...like...* The harder he tried to remember, the more the memory eluded him. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he had some experience with a man in his own past. But when? Where? And how? All he knew was that it didn't feel unnatural for him to be held in a man's arms, enjoying his kiss- *Wait a minute! When did I start enjoying this?!?* Sam hastily pulled away, gasping for breath.

"Spock, I think that's enough for tonight," he told him breathlessly. The Vulcan didn't say a word, he simply pulled him close and kissed him again. Sam could feel how strong he was and sense how aroused he was becoming. It scared him so much he put his hands on Spock's chest and attempted to push him away. Not only did he fail to budge Spock, the Vulcan thought he was caressing him and responded by rubbing Sam's back with his big hands.

Sam moaned in protest and tore his mouth away from the hot lips devouring his. "Stop it, Spock!" he gasped. "That's enough!"

"Why? Don't you want me?" the deep voice asked plaintively, in a way that tore at Sam's heart.

"Not tonight, Spock! Please, I'm begging you! Let go, please!" Sam wriggled out of his embrace and held him at arm's length. Both men were breathing hard, staring at each other with glassy eyes. Sam couldn't believe how aroused he was. He knew he had to nip this in the bud fast, before he did something foolish. "I'm sorry, Spock," he panted, thinking fast, "but I just don't feel comfortable with the thought of making love tonight. I'm still in pain from my head injury, and I don't want you to drain yourself trying to heal it. Why don't we both sleep alone tonight and see how we feel tomorrow, okay?"

"If that is what you want, Jim," Spock said slowly, visibly swallowing his disappointment.

Though his whole body was screaming "No!" Sam forced himself to say, "Yes, that's what I want. At least for tonight. Now help me find those pills so I can get a good night's sleep, okay?"

Spock soon located the painkillers McCoy had prescribed for the captain. Sam took two with water and told him, "Thanks, Spock. See you in the morning. Good night." He started to hug him, then held out two fingers instead. 

The Vulcan gratefully touched his bondmate's fingers, caressing them lovingly as Sam felt the warmth going up his arm straight to his mind and spread itself throughout his body. "Good night, Jim. Sleep well, T'hy'la." The look he gave him told Sam that he would prefer to be sleeping beside him.

Sam left the bathroom, trying not to look like he was in too much of a hurry. But as soon as the door had slid shut behind him, he collapsed against the opposite wall groaning "Oh, boy!" His whole body felt so turned on, he didn't think it would be possible for him to fall asleep any time soon. *As soon as I'm sure Spock is out of there, I'm going back inside to take a cold shower. A very cold shower. Otherwise this is going to be a very long night!*

FIVE

The next morning, a very nervous Sam Beckett appeared on the bridge of the ENTERPRISE at 0845 hours. All eyes were on him as he emerged from the turbolift. He had to make sure he behaved the same way Jim Kirk would; he owed it to his descendent to take care of his ship and crew. Nodding pleasantly to everyone, he crossed the short distance to the command chair.

"Good morning, sir," the beautiful black woman in the short red dress greeted him from the Communications station. "How are you today?" 

"Fine, thank you, Lieutenant." Sam had eaten breakfast in the captain's quarters so that he could study the crew roster at his leisure, especially the bridge crew. By now he was pretty sure who was who; according to the computer, this was the communications officer, Lieutenant Nyota Uhura. As he sat down in the command chair, he was addressed by the older of the two helmsmen, the Oriental fellow.

"It's good to see you back, sir. We were worried about you."

"Takes more than a bump on the head to put me out of action, Mr. Sulu," Sam told him.

Sulu grinned. "Yes, sir. Are you still going down with the landing party?"

"Of course. As soon as I get that environmental report I asked for yesterday. Is it ready, Mr. Chekov?" Sam asked the younger helmsman, hoping he'd gotten his name right.

"Yes, sir. I haf it here." The Russian accent confirmed that the dark-haired young man was Ensign Pavel Chekov. He held up a yellow diskette. "Do you vish to hear it now?"

"Let's wait until Spock gets here. By the way, where is Spock?"

Chekov gave him a puzzled look. "He is in the main Science Lab, sir, like he alvays is at this hour. He is not officially on duty until 0900."

Sam took a quick peek at the gold chronometer on his left wrist and saw that it was still 0848. "Oh yes, of course! Sorry, Chekov. That bump on the head is making little details spill out of my brain."

Chekov smiled. "No problem, sir." Sam heaved a mental sigh of relief as Chekov turned away.

Sam heard the turbolift doors swishing open behind him, followed moments later by a raspy, Southern-accented voice. "Mornin', Captain. Feelin' good enough to go walking through that winter wonderland with us?"

Sam swiveled his chair around to face McCoy. "Yes, Doctor, I'm fine. Would you care to examine me again?"

"Now that you mention it..." McCoy held up the medical tricorder he had been holding at his side, pointed it at Sam and pressed the button. As he passed it up and down Sam's body, a pretty blonde girl with an elaborate coiffure came up to the captain's chair and handed Sam an electronic device.

"The daily reports for yesterday and today, sir," said the pretty girl. "You didn't sign yesterday's report before your accident. Just read and sign them both before you leave."

"Thank you, Yeoman." Sam tried to remember her name as he read the golden yellow letters on the small, black screen of the device he held. Pretending to study the report intently helped to hide the way he fumbled at the buttons until he found the one that let him scroll down the page, enabling him to read the document. "This may take a while," he told the blonde girl. "Could you bring me some coffee, Miss Rand?"

"Yes, sir." Sam gave another mental sigh of relief at having successfully remembered another crewmember's name.

McCoy finished his medical scan and studied his results. "Well, Jim, looks like you pass with flying colors. Physically, anyway. As for your mental condition, only time will tell. Have you had any more dizzy spells? What about headaches?"

Yeoman Rand handed him his coffee at that moment. Sam thanked her, took a sip of the strong, hot black brew and sighed appreciatively. "Can you at least wait until I've had my coffee, Leonard?"

"Leonard?" McCoy looked at him as if he'd been slapped.  
"Are you sore at me or something, Jim? What happened to Bones?"

Sam nearly spilled his coffee. *Damn it, Al, why didn't you tell me McCoy had a nickname?* "Take it easy, Bones, I'm just messing with you."

McCoy grinned. "Well, at least your sense of humor is unaffected." 

"Can't afford to lose my sense of humor with you, Bones. And no, I haven't had any more dizzy spells or headaches," he assured the doctor.

"Good, at least I don't have to follow you around with the tricorder all the time. Might be other sick people down there that need me more." McCoy turned away, leaving Sam to study the reports in peace.

Spock arrived on the bridge just as Sam finished the reports and affixed his signature to them, hoping he was copying Kirk's signature well enough to pass scrutiny. "Good morning, Spock," Sam said cheerfully as the tall Vulcan passed him on the way to the Science station.

"Good morning, Captain. I trust you are well?" Spock's dark eyes regarded him intently enough to belie his impassive expression.

"Very well indeed. And looking forward to exploring this strange new world. Chekov, let's have that environmental report now, please."

"Yes, sir." Chekov put the yellow diskette into his console and pressed a couple of buttons. "Relaying it to your Science station now, Mr. Spock."

Spock bent over his console to study the screen. "Received, Mr. Chekov," he informed him. "I will relay the information momentarily, Captain." He started pressing buttons rapidly.

As he was handing the electronic PADD back to Yeoman Rand, Sam glanced up at Spock. Seeing the tall, slender man from behind, bent over his console, gave him an excellent view of Spock's well-shaped posterior. Sam could feel himself blushing as he quickly looked away. He picked up his coffee cup and finished the now tepid liquid at the bottom so he could compose himself. 

"As we have already ascertained, Captain, the surface of this planet is arctic in nature," said Spock. "The average daytime temperature is thirty degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Nighttime temperatures can go as low as one hundred and fifty degrees below zero. Snow falls at a rate of 30.5 inches per day. Because of the hostile climate, this planet has been classified as Class L, habitable only under technological conditions.

"The natives of this planet have adapted to the hostile environment by moving underground, where there are an abundance of subterranean hot springs to provide warmth. Their culture is similar to that of the Eskimo people of Earth, who inhabit the Arctic coastal regions of North America, parts of Greenland and northeastern Siberia. They call themselves the Innan, which means People of Innana, their tribal goddess. There are twelve tribes scattered across the planet, but this is the largest one. They are a peaceful people, friendly and hospitable to strangers, but quite capable of defending themselves, as the landing party from the U.S.S. ICARUS discovered when they accidentally stumbled into one of the Innan's community steam baths, while they were tunneling in search of metal ore and minerals."

"That must have been quite a shock for both parties," McCoy remarked. "Our people go digging for gold and minerals and wind up in a steam bath full of naked people. The Innan must have thought they were hallucinating from the heat."

"I would too, if I saw a bunch of people in mining gear tunneling into my steam bath," said Sam.

"Despite the awkwardness of the initial contact," Spock continued, "the ICARUS landing party managed to gain the confidence of the Innan and convince them that they had come in peace. The Innan have lived in isolation for so long, they were grateful for the contact, and curious about the manner of people who had contacted them. The landing party was not able to remain long, being only a scout ship with limited supplies and a full schedule, but they promised the Innan they would send another starship with people who could help them drive away the eternal winter on the surface of their world. This was after the landing party had discovered that the arctic environment on the planet's surface was actually a nuclear winter, caused by a long ago catastrophe which has faded into legend among the Innan. This is the reason why the Innan have such a low level of technology, limited to hunting and gathering food, warming the caverns in which they live, and other simple activities that are essential to maintain life. 

"Our assignment is to discover what caused the nuclear winter, how to reverse the effects so that the surface of the planet will be suitable for humanoid life, and ascertaining whether the Innan are qualified to join the Federation."

"All right, gentlemen," said Sam, "let's get this show on the road. All members of the landing party are to meet in the main transporter room in one hour, suitably outfitted for the hostile environment down there. Doctor, be prepared to treat radiation sickness as well as frostbite, in case we discover the source of this nuclear winter is still active." 

"I'm on it, Jim. See you in an hour."

As McCoy left the bridge, Sam turned to Uhura. "Lieutenant Uhura, please contact the ship's quartermaster and see that every member of the landing party has suitable cold weather gear, including myself."

"Aye, sir."

Sam started to rise from his seat, then caught Yeoman Rand's eye. "Uh, Miss Rand, am I all caught up on my paperwork now? You're sure there's nothing left for me to sign?"

She smiled. "Nothing, sir. You're free to go."

"Ah, thank you, Miss Rand. Free at last, free at last!" He jumped out of his chair and headed for the turbolift. "Come on, Spock, let's go play in the snow!"

"Vait for me, sirs!" Chekov ran over to join the captain and the first officer as they entered the lift. Uhura smiled as the doors closed on them.

"He seems to be okay now," she remarked to Yeoman Rand.

"I hope so!" Rand said earnestly. "I just hope he doesn't overdo it."

"The doctor will keep an eye on him," Sulu reassured her. "So will Spock."

"Yes, if anybody can keep the captain from overdoing it, it'll be Spock," said Uhura. They all smiled, being among the favored few who knew about the captain's relationship with Spock, and resumed their duties without further comment, confident that their commanding officer would be well cared for.

SIX

The ENTERPRISE landing party, consisting of Sam, Spock, McCoy, Scott, Ensign Chekov, Lieutenant Stiles and two Security men beamed down to the surface of Lazarus at 1000 hours and found themselves standing knee-deep in snow. Fortunately their Starfleet issue boots were insulated against the cold. But Sam was grateful for the extra pair of socks he had put on anyway. He took a deep breath of the cold, clean air and put his head back to look at the sky, which was steel gray and heavily overcast.

"Looks like more snow soon," Sam remarked, studying the dark clouds overhead, pregnant with precipitation.

"More?" McCoy said querulously, looking like a big, black teddy bear in his Starfleet issue parka. "Dear God, I can't move my legs as it is!"

"Dis is nothing, Doktor," Chekov told him. "You should see how deep the snow gets in Russia. Vhen I vas a little boy, I had to valk to school in snow up to my vaist!"

"Bullshit, Chekov," McCoy grumbled. "Your father drove you to school in his airsled. You lived in Leningrad, not Siberia!"

Chekov gave a sheepish grin as Sam laughed. "Come on, Bones, move your feet before you freeze in place. Everybody stamp your feet and push some of this snow out of your way. Keep your blood circulating till we figure out which way to go. Spock, which way are we going?"

Spock checked his tricorder while everybody else was stomping around and sweeping snow aside with their feet. "According to my coordinates, the entrance to the Innan's underground home is less than fifty feet away. It may take us a while to get there due to the density of the snow."

"Think we can get there before the spring thaw?" McCoy grumbled as he stomped around with his arms wrapped around himself.

"Good thing these people don't live on the surface," Stiles remarked. "They'd need a dogsled and a team of huskies just to get to the mailbox on the corner." 

"Come on, guys, don't wimp out over a few feet of snow," Sam told them.

"What do you suggest we do, make snowmen?" asked McCoy. 

"Doctor, it is not logical to engage in such juvenile activities when one is on duty-" Spock started to say. He stopped when he saw something register on his tricorder. "Captain, I am receiving life signs. Distinctly humanoid. A group of five, heading this way."

"That'll be the local welcoming committee," said Sam. "The chief of the Innan and his headmen. What's his name again, Spock?"

"Mogul Hanuman D'Innana. 'Mogul' is their word for chief, 'Hanuman' is his given name, and 'D'Innana' is his hereditary title, meaning 'son of Innana'. The chiefs of the Innan are supposed to be directly descended from the goddess Innana, giving them the divine right to rule their people."

"We'd better mind our manners, then. Fall in, gentlemen. Dobbs, Ferryman, keep your phasers out of sight," Sam cautioned the two Security men. 

"I would advise everyone to use the traditional greeting of the Innan." Spock demonstrated by clasping his gloved hands in front of him at waist level and shaking them while bowing low. "This signifies that you are unarmed and wish to talk peace." 

"So we shake hands with ourselves, eh?" McCoy commented. 

"You would be better advised to clasp your hands in front of your mouth, Doctor," said Spock dryly, "to avoid saying anything that may offend." 

"Oh, yeah?" McCoy drawled, a feisty gleam in his blue eyes. "Well, I'll be happy to, Spock, if you put your hands over your ears to avoid hearing anything offensive. Then Jim can put his hands over his eyes so he won't see anything offensive. Then we'll all look like a bunch of monkey's uncles!"

Sam couldn't help laughing along with the other humans at the doctor's remark. "Come on, Bones, knock it off before you make a monkey out of yourself!" 

"Here they come, Captain," Spock warned him, forcing Sam to face forward to greet their hosts.

A group of people in fur parkas and furry leggings worn over thick, animal-hide boots came dashing through the snow toward them. Sam thought they were remarkably light on their feet despite the thickness of the snow, until he noticed that they were wearing snowshoes, which enabled them to walk above the snow. They were all shorter than the men from the ENTERPRISE and appeared to be stockily built beneath their heavy fur coats. The man in the lead was a cheerful-looking fellow in his mid-fifties, with slanted eyes and high cheekbones in a golden-skinned face. He waved a mittened hand in the air and called out, "Hellooo! Captain Kirk?"

Sam waved back and shouted, "Yes, over here!" Then he clasped his hands in front of him and bowed a greeting. His men followed suit as the chief of the Innan came up to them. 

"We the people of Innana welcome you in Her name," said the chief, bowing low as he clasped his hands at his breast and shook them vigorously.

"We the crew of the ENTERPRISE greet you in the name of the Federation, Mogul Hanuman," said Sam in reply.

"Excuse me, Captain," a younger man at the chief's side piped up, "but since you are not a relative, you must not use my father's given name in public. You must always address him as Mogul D'Innana."

"I apologize, Mogul D'Innana," Sam said contritely. "I did not mean to offend."

The mogul laughed. "Don't worry, Captain, it's just my eldest son trying to impress you with his father's importance. You'll find it mighty hard to address me formally once you've shared a steam bath with me!"

Sam smiled. "I look forward to the steam bath, sir. So this young man is your son?"

"Yes, this is Hanuman D'Hanuman, my son and heir, who is so concerned for his father's dignity." The mogul playfully punched his son on the arm. The younger Hanuman grinned sheepishly and ducked his head at his father's affectionate rebuke, and Sam saw that he wasn't much older than Chekov. "Let's not keep our guests standing in the cold, son. Looks like it's going to snow again. I'd like to be inside when it falls."

"So would I, Father," Hanuman the younger said. "Will you present my uncles first?"

"Certainly." The mogul presented his three headmen, who were also his younger brothers, Hathor, Hagar and Helvis. Sam duly presented his first officer, ship's surgeon, chief engineer and navigator/assistant science officer Ensign Chekov, followed by chief engineering assistant Lieutenant Stiles and the two Security men. Once the introductions were out of the way, the mogul insisted that Captain Kirk and his men come with them to their underground home, which he called a keroc (the translator interpreted this word as "dwelling cavern"). Hanuman led the way, with Sam beside him, letting the others follow the trail that the Innan left in the snow for them. 

The Innans led them to a small, round structure made of ice with a round door, which they crawled through one by one. Inside they found a small room with a stone sleeping ledge on either side and a firepit in the center beneath a screened smokehole. The room contained firewood, woven blankets, barrels of water, dried fish and smoked meat.

"This is a shelter for travelers," Hanuman explained. "Sometimes our hunters get caught outside after curfew, or visitors from another tribe need to rest after a long day of travel. No one is allowed downstairs after curfew, so once they have rested and fed themselves, they sleep up here, and in the morning they ask permission to come downstairs." He demonstrated by kneeling down and knocking on the trapdoor at the rear behind the barrels.

The trapdoor sprang open, revealing a golden-skinned warrior with braided black hair and a long, fearsome-looking spear in his hand. Recognizing his chief, he hailed him cheerfully and urged him to bring the visitors down. The mogul did so, warning Sam to watch his step. 

Sam followed the mogul down the narrow stairs carved out of the living rock. The entrance was just wide enough to admit one person at a time; Sam noticed a niche carved into the rock at one side for the sentry to sit. It was a long way down, but well-lit, with oil lamps set in the walls on either side. The stairs widened as they neared the bottom, allowing Sam to walk side by side with the mogul; two more sentries met them at the foot of the stairs and greeted them courteously.

The landing party then found themselves being escorted through underground corridors, filled with oil lamps in niches and people going to and fro. It was so warm down there that Sam and his men unzipped their parkas. Hanuman and his people had already unbuttoned theirs and were greeting people who passed them as they led their visitors toward the chief's own cavern. 

The landing party found themselves being led into a cavern lined with beautiful woven wall hangings, depicting the history of the Innan in bright colors and cunningly drawn pictures of people and animals. There were soft fur rugs underfoot and a succulent smell of cooking in the air. The cavern was filled with people, mostly women, all of them either related to the mogul or working for him. 

A group of these women came forward to greet them, led by a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, her shining black hair just touched with gray, woven into two long, thick braids that were wrapped around her head like a crown. She wore a tunic of soft, cured animal hide the color of honey, embroidered with colored beads to form the pattern of a bird with outspread wings. Her trousers were made of the same honey-colored hide; her flat-heeled shoes were made of soft black leather and embroidered with colored beads in the same pattern as her tunic.

"Welcome back, my husband," she said, holding out her hands to the mogul in greeting. "And a warm welcome to our guests from the Federation."

Hanuman took her hands in his and squeezed them affectionately while regarding her warmly. "Captain Kirk, this is my wife Bohana, mother of my nine heirs and mother to the tribe as well."

Sam bowed to Bohana and looked her over appreciatively. "The Mogul D'Innana is a fortunate man," he remarked gallantly. 

"Yes, I have a pretty wife who can cook and has bourn me nine healthy children. Now if only she were mute as well," Hanuman joked. 

Bohana responded by boxing him on one ear. "Is that how you treat the mother of the tribe? Insulting me in front of visitors?" she scolded him lovingly. "May your next cave bear chew your foot off! Now go wash up so we can serve lunch while it is hot."

"Yes, my dear." He waved bye-bye as she hurried away to give orders to her daughters and maidservants. He led the visitors to an alcove where they could hang their parkas on the many hooks attached to the wall. The hooks were all made from small animal horns, some deerlike, some goatlike, except for one which resembled a foot-long unicorn's horn. The mogul was the only one allowed to hang his coat from this hook.

All of Hanuman's daughters, six lovely girls in their late teens and early twenties, brought bowls of hot water for the guests to wash with. Sam smiled and complimented them as gallantly as he had their mother, until they were all giggling like little girls. Chekov, Scotty and McCoy followed his lead. Spock maintained his dignity, not without some reproachful looks at his bondmate for his flirtatiousness. The two Security men were too shy to speak to the young ladies without blushing, while Stiles remained aloof, avoiding their touch as well as eye contact.

The guests were then seated on embroidered cushions around a small firepit, over which there was a big, black pot of hot, steaming, spicy-smelling punch called klaah, which the chief ladled generously into carved wooden mugs. The taste reminded Sam of the eggnog his father used to make at Christmas. Spock took one sip, frowned thoughtfully and commented, "Interesting. A milk-based beverage mixed with fermented liquor and spices. Not unlike the Terran beverage called eggnog."

"Hey, I was just thinking the same thing!" said Sam. "Great minds certainly think alike, don't they?" He smiled at Spock, who gave him a grave look underlaid with affection. 

"Take care you don't drink too much, Jim," Spock said softly. "It is quite strong."

"I'm not surprised. With the weather outside always less than zero, strong drinks must be quite popular here." A burst of feminine laughter from the opposite side of the circle drew Sam's attention to Chekov, McCoy, and Scotty; each of them had a mug of hot punch in one hand and one of the chief's daughters at his side. Even the security guards had loosened up enough to let the maidservants, who were now bringing in the food, fuss over them. Only Stiles remained aloof, sitting at the farthest end of the circle, away from Sam, Spock and the mogul, sipping punch with a sour expression.

"Stiles doesn't appear to be enjoying himself," Sam murmured over the rim of his mug to Spock.

"I am not surprised," Spock whispered in his ear. "Ever since our first encounter with the Romulans, he has been uncomfortable with aliens. I did advise you not to include him in the landing party."

"I was hoping he'd be over it by now." Sam eyed the dour Stiles with misgiving. "You'd think being surrounded by pretty girls would put him in a better mood." 

"Yes, even those who have no practical use for women are usually capable of appreciating them in an aesthetic sense." Spock looked meaningfully at Sam, who promptly nodded in agreement. "But it appears that Mr. Stiles takes no pleasure in feminine beauty for its' own sake."

"Yes, let's hope he loosens up after a good meal." Sam sniffed appreciatively as the platters were passed around by the pretty maidservants.

They dined on a thick, white soup that turned out to be mushroom, colorful steamed root vegetables in butter sauce, a soft, white cheese with tiny holes that reminded Sam of halvati, fresh baked bread cut into generous chunks for dipping, a huge, stuffed baked fish that looked like a cross between a salmon and a sturgeon (its' pea-sized, bluish-black eggs were served as an appetizer), small birds like skinny Rock Cornish hens, roasted whole and served with their long, sharp beaks inserted into their stuffing-filled bellies, and a haunch of meat, roasted brown and covered with gravy, which turned out to be cave bear. Spock stuck to the vegetables and soup, making a sandwich out of the cheese and bread, which he studied between bites.

"Interesting," Spock murmured. "How does a society of underground dwellers acquire wheat for making bread? How do they grow their vegetables? What sort of animal do they get milk and dairy products from? How do they grow their crops?"

"Ferchrisakes, Spock, quit analyzing the food and just enjoy it!" McCoy told him, in between bites of meat and gravy.

"I was just thinking the same thing," Sam admitted, studying the bone structure of the tiny roasted bird he had just eaten. It reminded him of a sea gull. "Mogul D'Innana, do your people grow crops and herd livestock on the surface?"

The mogul wiped his fingers on a hot, wet towel before reaching for another piece of bread. "No, Captain, nothing good grows on the surface. The ground is frozen too hard for planting. We do have herds of mountain goats, branded with the symbol of each tribe, which we allow to roam above because they don't do well below. We couldn't harvest that long, soft hair of theirs for our clothing if we brought them down here; their hair only grows long in the cold. So we keep our own little herds of mulch goats down here. There's plenty of room to stable them, and they provide us with milk for butter and cheese, and dung to fertilize our crops."

"But where do you grow your crops, if the ground above is frozen too hard to plant anything?"

The mogul grinned. "We grow them the same way our ancestors did, after they moved down here. In tanks filled with water, underneath special lights that imitate the sun."

"Of course!" Sam exclaimed. "Hydroponic gardens with ultraviolet lights!"

"Fascinating," Spock remarked. "Do your craftsmen know how to make these devices, or do they only know how to repair the existing ones?"

"We can make the water tanks from glass we blow ourselves, but the sun lights are very hard to replace when they break down. Our craftsmen are just not as skilled as our ancestors were; it takes one of them months to build a new sun light from scratch. And the ones they make don't work as well as the old ones.

"We are also running out of the small electronic parts our ancestors used to make the sun lights. Lately we have had to salvage parts from broken lights to make new ones. We have also had to trade many goats, woven cloth and furs to other tribes for new parts. When our young women marry into other tribes, they now have to have electronics as part of their dowry, as well as woven cloth and furs."

"Scotty, do you think you could help the Mogul and his people reproduce the electronics they need for their sun lights?" Sam asked.

"Aye, Cap'n. T'would be a bit of a challenge, but I think it could be done."

"Perhaps their aged technology could be supplemented with newer ultraviolet lamps from our own hydroponics bay," Spock suggested.  
Stiles suddenly spoke up. "Sir, don't be in such a hurry to give away our technology to these people. You'll be violating the Prime Directive." 

"I see nothing wrong with offering technical assistance to people in need, Mr. Stiles," Sam replied coldly, not liking the way he said "these people". "Especially people being considered for membership in the Federation. What better way to encourage them to join than to show them the benefits to be gained?"

"I find your generosity to be quite logical, Captain," Spock said. 

"You would," Stiles muttered, giving Spock the hairy eyeball before hunching over his dinner platter again. 

Sam decided to ignore the remark for now. He continued his discussion with the mogul, encouraging Scotty to ask technical questions about the sun lights and other devices the Innan depended on for their daily sustenance. By the time dessert was brought in (a huge bowl of snow cream, which was new fallen snow mixed with cream and small, red berries that tasted like cherries), Sam had convinced the mogul to give them a tour around the keroc, to see how his people lived.

SEVEN

By nightfall, Sam had seen enough to convince him that the People of Innana would soon be extinct if they didn't get help. 

Though their keroc was miles long, with many tunnels where extended families lived, caverns with stables full of goats and poultry, hydroponic gardens filled with grain, vegetables and dwarf fruit trees, storerooms filled with dried fish and smoked meat, and workrooms where skilled craftsmen toiled, Sam noticed that there were a lot of empty spaces in the storerooms, as well as many empty beds in the families' quarters. Spears and crossbows of fallen warriors were hung in remembrance over the beds, outnumbering the beds of living children covered with toys, carved wooden figures and embroidered little dresses and shirts lovingly made by mothers’ hands.

Many of the surviving warriors filled the healer's hall, still recovering from wounds received on the surface from hunting and fighting with huge predators over the smaller animals, as well as with rival tribes over fishing rights and stolen herds of goats. The medicinal herbs used by their healers to ease pain and prevent infection were running low, because the mogul had decreed that growing food was the greater priority. When McCoy asked why there were so few elderly people, he was told by the tribe's chief healer that people down here didn't live much past the age of sixty. 

The infant mortality rate was also shockingly high; two out of three died at birth. At least a third of the children who survived birth were deformed in some way; dwarfism was common, as was mental retardation. Even the many healthy children they saw, who followed them around from cavern to cavern like friendly puppies, showed signs of malnutrition; the bones were showing beneath the tightly-drawn golden skin of their little faces, their legs were bowed, their growth was stunted because of limited rations. When Sam picked up a pretty little girl who offered him a paper flower, he was shocked to learn that she was already five years old; he thought she was only two.

Later, when they regrouped in the mogul's cavern, the landing party compared notes in private while the mogul's wife and daughters prepared their beds. "These people are an endangered species," Sam proclaimed. "If they don't get Federation assistance soon, they will perish from the face of this planet. Bones, you saw how many sick children they had?"

"Yep, I also saw how skinny and undersized the healthy ones were. The grownups aren't in much better shape, either. Food is rationed out by family size, but a lot of parents have been giving their portions to their children. The warriors and hunters who supply the tribe with food and furs for trading have the highest mortality rate; there's stiff competition between the twelve tribes over hunting lands, fishing rights, and goat poaching."

"Those goathair sweaters they make are just like angora," Chekov commented. "They vould make splendid items for export to other vorlds."

"Aye, Captain," Scotty agreed. "Their woven cloth is beautiful as well. I saw tapestries hanging on the walls that wouldna looked out of place in Balmoral Castle back home. They still weave 'em the old-fashioned way, and color 'em with plant dyes. 'Tis a shame the mogul has decreed that only edible plants can be grown in the hydro gardens. That cuts back on the amount of colors they can make."

"Not just the dye plants," said McCoy. "The medicinal plants have been crowded out too, relegated to a small corner of the gardens. Their healers have to dilute the painkillers they extract from a native plant, to make them last until the next batch is grown. That reduces their effectiveness, which makes even the simplest surgery difficult. The chief healer told me horror stories he had heard about tribes who were so low on painkillers, they had to tie down their warriors to stitch up their wounds. Childbirth has become more difficult too; midwives have resorted to giving women in labor strong drinks like klaah to get them through it. Which I don't have to tell you is bad for the mother and the baby."

"Just what I'd expect from a primitive world like this," Stiles muttered.

"What was that, Mr. Stiles?" Sam asked sharply. "If you have something to say about our hosts, please say it out loud."

"I said it was just what I'd expect from a primitive world like this!" Stiles snapped. "Face it, Captain, these people are savages!"

"Compared to whom, Mr. Stiles? Such primitive behavior used to be quite common on our own world. Even Mr. Spock's world went through a period of primitivism, before they developed technology. All civilized people evolved from savagery. All the Innans need is a break, to help them develop more effective ways of feeding and caring for themselves."

"But until they do, we'll be stuck with feeding them!" Stiles argued. "The Federation should not be responsible for supporting member worlds that can't support themselves! Those who join the Federation should have something to offer in return for our assistance, not just a bunch of hungry mouths to feed." 

Sam could feel his temper rising and fought to stay calm. "Considering how generous the Mogul D'Innana has been to us," he said slowly, laying out each word like cards on a table, "giving us that lavish lunch when he can ill-afford to feed his own people, letting us roam freely through their home and ask questions about their lifestyle, I think we own him a little generosity in return."

"Hear, hear!" McCoy said. "These people are the kindest, most decent bunch of aliens I've ever met. A lot of them primitive worlds Stiles is talkin' about practice euthanasia to cut down on the number of mouths to feed." McCoy's Southern accent became more prominent as he spoke, until you could hear his Georgia drawl coming through, along with the anger in his voice. "Any other society faced with food shortages would have started killin' deformed infants and elderly people by now. But they love all their children, even the retarded ones. And their old folks are treated with love and respect while they live, and allowed to die when their time comes."

"Well, maybe they'd have more old people if they stopped having so many babies," Stiles suggested. "That's one thing the Federation can do for them. Give them contraceptives so they won't have so many mouths to feed." 

Sam came very close to hitting Stiles for that remark. "Who put you in charge of population control on other worlds, Mr. Stiles?" he asked. "Talk about violating the Prime Directive! Haven't you noticed how high the infant mortality rate is? You don't offer contraceptives to people who are losing their children due to food shortages! Once we've improved their technology, they'll have no problem feeding themselves. Then, and only then, will we suggest birth control as a means of extending the food supply."

The sight of his captain's angry glare, along with the other varying looks of disgust being directed at him from his crewmates(even Spock looked at him as if he were some particularly smelly new species of bug), made Stiles turn red and hang his head. While he was trying to think of how to remove his foot from his mouth, Bohana entered the alcove to announce supper.

Once again the landing party found themselves seated on embroidered cushions around the firepit. A fresh batch of klaah was brewing in the pot, which the mogul ladled out generously to each guest. Supper wasn't as lavish as lunch had been; big wooden bowls filled with thick, creamy mushroom soup, plenty of fresh bread and butter, and platters of steamed vegetables with cheese or butter sauce.

"We always eat lightly before bedtime," Hanuman explained. "Fresh meat and fish are only eaten at the midday meal, when they are available. When the snow above is too deep for hunting, we eat the dried fish and smoked meat in the storage rooms. But guests are always given our best. There is no meat left over from lunch, but if any of you are still hungry after you finish your soup, please do not hesitate to ask for smoked meat with your bread."

"No, thank you, Mogul D'Innana. I'm sure that my people will be more than satisfied with this generous supper you have provided." Sam looked around the small circle of ENTERPRISE crewmen, silently daring any of them to ask for more food. All the human members of the landing party loudly praised the generosity of the mogul and the deliciousness of the food, while Spock made a courteous remark about vegetarian meals being better for one's health than animal flesh. Stiles' praise was the loudest, before he shoved a spoonful of hot soup into his mouth, burning his tongue in the process. 

After supper, the guests were shown into the sleeping alcove occupied by the mogul and his immediate family; his wife and nine children, the eldest son's wife and her two children, the two oldest daughters' husbands and their five children, all three uncles and their wives, and their ten children. Fortunately the servants slept in another alcove, otherwise there wouldn't have been room for the guests, despite the spaciousness of the cavern.

The guests' beds, which consisted of thick fur rugs, fluffy pillows, woven wool and fur blankets were made up closest to the fire, right alongside the D'Innana family's beds. A dozen warriors were bedded down right outside the alcove's entrance, to protect the mogul and his family from intruders or assassins from rival tribes. A dozen more warriors' beds were laid out inside the cavern's entrance, so that any intruders would have to tiptoe past twenty-four fierce warriors, all light sleepers and armed to the teeth, before they could reach the chief's family or guests.

"An impressive display of strength," Spock murmured as he stood at Sam's side by the fire, looking at all the sleeping furs at the cavern's entrance.

"He needs it," Sam said quietly, warming his hands at the fire. "Hanuman's tribe is the richest one on this frozen planet. You can imagine how the poorer tribes envy him and wish they could acquire all his goods, especially the food and technology for growing it."

"Indeed." Spock turned around to see the mogul's four youngest daughters standing in their midst. All of them were wearing white woolen nightgowns that fell to their feet below, but were cut low in front above, exposing the tops of four sets of well-developed breasts. Their golden skin and long, black hair glowed in the firelight, giving them an aura of unearthly beauty as they smiled at the visitors.

"Um, Captain, I believe the young ladies wish to speak to you," said Spock, a hint of uneasiness in his deep voice as he eyed the pulchritudinous quartet.

Sam turned away from the fire to smile politely at the girls. "Yes, ladies? What can I do for you?"

The oldest girl spoke for them all. "Our father wishes us to offer you the favor of his household. As his honored guests, you each have the right to choose one of us to warm your beds tonight."

Sam was so startled, he didn't know what to say. The four girls kept smiling as they looked at him expectantly, the two youngest ones giving him coy looks from the corners of their sloe eyes. Spock was also looking at him, like one who expects to be hurt but is determined to bear it stoically.

*Ohmigosh! Now what do I do?* Sam thought. *I should have expected this; the Innuit people on Earth also have the custom of offering their unmarried daughters to visitors to warm their beds. If I refuse, I may offend our host. But if I accept, I'll hurt Spock.* He gazed at the Vulcan science officer in mute appeal, but Spock only looked back at him impassively, determined not to betray his captain or their relationship by word or action, equally prepared to abide by his bondmate's decision, even if it hurt him, for the sake of Federation diplomacy. 

Sam cleared his throat as he thought quickly. "Ladies, you flatter us with your kind offer. But I'm afraid that Spock and I are not able to accept. You see, we-uh, we are the leaders of this landing party, therefore we're not allowed to-um, indulge in the local pleasures. However, the rest of our people are free to accept your offer. Please feel free to warm the beds of any of our men who will accept you."

The ladies accepted his refusal graciously and went to see if any of the other visitors wanted to have their beds warmed. Sam heaved a sigh of relief. "Phew! I'm glad they're not offended. Come on, Spock, let's get in bed before any of the other women approach us."

He and Spock pushed their beds together side by side, rearranging the blankets to cover them both. They had just taken their boots off and were about to slide beneath the covers when they heard a commotion from a dark corner of the sleeping cavern.

"I said NO! Get away from me, you little sluts! Keep your stinking yellow hands off me!"

Sam and Spock jumped up and ran over to the dark corner, where they found an angry Lieutenant Stiles with his back against the wall and his fists in the air, as Hanuman's two youngest daughters cowered before him, confused and frightened by the offworlder's response to their courteous offer. Sam got between them quickly and reprimanded the lieutenant in a low, angry voice.

"Stiles, what do you think you're doing? The young ladies made you a polite offer to warm your bed, which is the custom among their people. If you're not interested, the least you can do is refuse politely!" 

"It's bad enough I have to sleep down here with these aliens," Stiles hissed, glaring over Sam's shoulder at the frightened young girls, "but I'm damned if I let them put their hands on me!"

Sam grabbed him by his shirtfront and pulled him close enough to hiss into his face. "I've had just about enough of your xenophobia, mister! If you didn't want to encounter aliens, why the hell did you ever join Starfleet? Now I want you to apologize to the young ladies and agree with whatever excuse I make up for you. And keep your mouth shut about aliens for the rest of the mission! If you jeopardize this first contact, I'll throw you into the brig until we reach the next starbase! And when we get there, I'll have you court-martialed for insubordination, with a recommendation that you be dishonorably discharged! Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Stiles muttered, shamefaced, unable to look him in the eye. 

"Good! Now say you're sorry when I tell you to." Sam dragged him over to the girls and smiled at them reassuringly as he appeared to be holding Stiles close with a friendly arm draped over his shoulders. "I must apologize for my crewman's rudeness, ladies. He would have been happy to let one of you warm his bed, if he wasn't still recovering from a bad case of-" He spotted a curious McCoy standing next to Spock and called to him. "Doctor, what was the name of that disease again? The sexually transmitted one that leaves you weak as a kitten and unable to perform?"

McCoy caught on quickly. "Oh, you mean Zimbolian Blood Burn? Yes, I'm afraid poor Stiles still isn't fully recovered from it. I gave him the last injection of antibiotic only yesterday and warned him to avoid sexual contact for at least another month. Not that he'll be able to do anything even if he does meet someone he likes. But this disease does leave you terminally exhausted, as well as impotent, which can make a man awfully cranky."

"Yes, people recovering from Zimbolian Blood Burn do tend to become very short-tempered. Don't they, Stiles?" Sam smiled at him in apparent sympathy while digging his fingers into Stiles' shoulder, making the other man wince.

"Y-Yes, sir. I-I'm very sorry, ladies. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, just because I'm-too tired. I hope you can forgive me." 

The girls assured him that they did forgive him and apologized for disturbing his rest. McCoy then suggested that they come over and meet Dobbs and Ferryman, took them each by the hand and led them away like good children.

Sam dropped his smile and let go of Stiles. "Okay, Stiles, I got you out of this one," he told him tersely. "But next time you offend our hosts, I'm going to come down on you like a ton of bricks, is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, sir," Stiles muttered as he rubbed his sore shoulder, still avoiding his captain's eyes.

"Get to bed and stay there. If any other woman approaches you, pretend you're asleep." Sam stalked away, too disgusted to look at him. Spock lingered long enough to give Stiles a withering look and followed his bondmate, leaving Stiles feeling as small and ashamed as a school bully caught picking on little girls on the playground.

Sam and Spock returned to their combined beds and started to slip between the covers again when Hanuman himself appeared, in his dark blue embroidered bedgown and yellow kid slippers, his long, graying black hair freshly braided for sleep, looking extremely upset.

"Forgive me, Captain Kirk, but my daughters have just informed me that you refused the favor of my house. This disturbs me very much. Have any of my daughters offended you in some way? Or would you prefer some other woman of my household to warm your bed? If so, can you name her? Or describe her, so that I may have her brought to you? Please tell me how we have displeased you, Captain. The honor of my household is at stake. I will not have it said among the twelve tribes that Mogul Hanuman D'Innana failed to show courtesy to a guest, even one not of this world."

Sam, who had sprung to his feet at the sight of the mogul, now stood blushing like a schoolboy as he realized how seriously they took this custom of warming a guest's bed. "It is I who must ask your forgiveness, Mogul D'Innana. I assure you that I have not been offended by your daughters, or any other of your people. Indeed, your generosity to us has been so great that I am at a loss to describe how indebted we are to you. In fact, Spock and I decided it would be churlish of us to take further advantage of your generosity. So we would prefer to keep each other warm tonight, rather than deprive your lovely daughters, or any of the other lovely ladies of your household, of their much needed rest."

"But the rest of your men have accepted the favor of my household," replied the puzzled Hanuman. "All except the one called Stiles, who I understand is still recovering from an illness. I do not understand why a great warrior-chief as courteous as you would refuse the favors of another chief's daughters, freely offered."

Sam felt himself becoming hot all over with embarrassment as he realized he would have to explain the true nature of his relationship with Spock, to relieve Hanuman's mind of anxiety concerning the honor of his household. As he drew in a deep breath to explain, he felt Spock lay his hands on his shoulders from behind him, then heard the deep voice murmur softly in his ear, "I believe it would be best to be honest with the mogul, T'hy'la."

Such a feeling of calmness and serenity came over Sam at Spock's touch, he lost all sense of embarrassment. He found himself drawing closer to Spock as he spoke quietly to the mogul. "Sir, I did not want to embarrass your daughters by divulging the real reason for my reluctance to accept their favors. But you see, Spock and I-we are more than friends. On his world, Vulcan, such a relationship as ours is known as t'hy'lai, or bondmates. We are pledged to one another. It is an exclusive relationship, man to man. If this offends you, I will remove myself and my bondmate from your midst immediately. But do not ask us to sleep apart, or offer me a woman in his place. His place is at my side, always and forever."

Hanuman blinked; his sloe eyes became wide with astonishment as he regarded the two Starfleet officers, the tall, dark, serious-looking Vulcan all but holding the smaller, fair-haired man in his arms as Kirk regarded Hanuman gravely, unashamed of their relationship. "Again I must ask your forgiveness, Captain Kirk," Hanuman told him. "I did not realize that you and Spock were spearmates. I assure you, I am not offended by such a relationship. Many of our warriors are spearmates, pledged to one another as surely as any man and woman who have taken wedding vows before me and the tribe. Indeed, among the warriors who guard my household, at least half of them are spearmates. This is an ancient custom, to assure that they will not threaten the virtue of my wife and daughters, nor any woman of my household. If you and Spock would prefer to lie at the threshold of my cavern with the other spearmates, you have my permission to do so."

"No, thank you, Mogul D'Innana. Even though we're not ashamed of our relationship, we would prefer not to flaunt it. Not everyone is as open-minded as you, nor as courteous. We would not leave you open to scorn and insult from the other tribes."

"I care nothing for the opinions of fools," said Hanuman disdainfully. "You and Spock are welcome to remain in my keroc for as long as you wish."

"Thank you, sir. May we wish you a good night?" Sam and Spock bowed with their folded hands at their breasts. The mogul returned their courteous gesture, wished them a good night in turn and left.

Sam all but collapsed into Spock's arms with relief. "Oh, boy!" he sighed. "Let's get into bed, Spock, before something else happens."

Spock nodded and gently assisted him into their fur-covered bed, where he pulled the covers up to Sam's chin, lay face down beside him and put his arm around Sam's waist. "Good night, T'hy'la," he said softly. "I sense you are too fatigued to join with me tonight. Let us simply keep each other warm, then." 

"Thanks, Spock," Sam said, grateful to be reprieved for one night; he hadn't been looking forward to bedtime, not knowing how to refuse Spock if he insisted upon taking a bondmate's privileges. "Good night." He kissed him, receiving a soft sigh of satisfaction in return as he was gathered close and held lovingly against a strong, warm body. He laid his head on Spock's shoulder and was asleep in minutes.

He was awakened moments later by a familiar whooshing sound. He opened his eyes and saw his holographic friend stepping through the invisible door from the Imaging Chamber back in his own time period. Al, who was dressed conservatively (for him) in a navy blue pinstriped suit, white shirt with a white-striped blue satin tie and wingtipped shoes, stood looking around the immense cavern, lit only by the banked fire flickering in the fireplace. He went over to one bed, only to withdraw hastily when he realized that the couple in it was fornicating. He went over to another bed, saw another couple going at it and veered off quickly in the opposite direction. 

Sam smiled as he realized that Al intended to go through every couple in the sleeping cavern until he found him. He thought of calling out to him, but didn't want to wake Spock, whose sensitive ears would surely pick up even the softest whisper. So he lay there watching Al going from bed to bed, trying not to laugh every time Al found another couple fornicating and backed off like a scalded cat. 

"Sam! Sam, where are you?" The presence of so many sleeping people made Al whisper, despite the fact that nobody could hear or see him but Sam. "Damn it, Sam! You better not be doing the nasty too! I don't have time to wait until you're finished!"

Sam took pity on his friend and let out a yawn, which he pronounced, "Awww-Al!"

Al looked up and saw him lying by the fire with Spock. "There you are!" He ran over and crouched down by the bed. "Don't say anything, just lie quiet and listen. Ziggy just found out something you need to know. First of all, there's a 90% probability that there's a Klingon spy on board the ENTERPRISE. Secondly, there's a 50-50 chance that this spy is a member of your landing party. Thirdly, the odds are three to one that this guy is responsible for the accident Kirk had in the engine room just before you leaped into him, and that he's going to try to finish the job down here." 

Sam suddenly felt cold with fear, despite the warm Vulcan body wrapped around him. He looked at Spock's face, serene in sleep, the angular features softened by love, then looked up at Al's concerned face and silently mouthed, "Why?"

"Because the Klingons are the worse enemies of the Federation, constantly fighting with them over discovering and colonizing planets. The Federation wants free people to add diversity and economic growth, the Klingons just want room for their expanding population to colonize, with a native population to provide slave labor. Captain Kirk has thwarted them over and over again, rescuing people from their clutches, warning newly contacted races about their viciousness, defeating them in battle-let's face it, Sam, the Klingons don't like your boy. And they have plenty of spies seeded throughout the Federation, fellow Klingons who have been surgically altered to look human, or humans who are willing to betray their own race for money and power.

"Unfortunately, Ziggy doesn't know which category this guy falls into, but she believes he'll probably try to kill you by noon tomorrow and make it look like Hanuman's people are responsible, to discredit the Innans and make them ineligible for Federation membership. Once they've alienated the Federation by murdering one of their most prominent Starfleet officers, the Klingons will move in, offering the Innans protection from Federation retaliation. Poor Hanuman is already on the brink of poverty, his people surrounded by hostile tribes making it difficult to hunt for food, their supplies running low while the snow's getting deeper, their outdated technology breaking down. He'll have no choice but to accept the Klingons' protection.

"Once the Klingons get here, they'll be as difficult to get out as the Russians from Siberia. They'll trample these gentle people under their boot heels. Don't let them, Sam!" Al urged him. "Find out who this Klingon spy is. Get him before he gets you!" Sam nodded, looking grim. 

"Okay, Sam, I gotta go." Al got up, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants. "Gushie is supposed to be recalibrating the Quantum Leap Accelerator to return you to our own time period. That's no guarantee that you'll end up in your own time, but at least you'll be back to leaping into people who've lived during your own lifetime. Preserve the future, Sam. Don't let anything happen to Jim Kirk. At least not until I've finished my latest chess game with him. This guy is good!" Al grinned at him before he stepped through the invisible doorway and disappeared. 

EIGHT

The rest of the night passed quietly, with Sam lying in Spock's arms wondering how to keep Jim Kirk alive for his sake. Morning arrived with the servants who came in to make up the fire and start heating water for washing and cooking. By then, Sam had come up with a plan to unmask the Klingon spy among them.

While the servants prepared breakfast, the entire landing party was invited to join in a group steam bath with Mogul D'Innana and his family. Sam thought it polite to accept, but he was careful to stay next to Spock the whole time. Seeing how the rest of the landing party reveled in the attention from the mogul's daughters, who obligingly massaged the men they had spent the night with, Sam decided that this first contact had gone quite well. He said as much to Spock as the quiet Vulcan sat behind him on the stone ledge, massaging his sweaty shoulders.

"Indeed," Spock murmured as he concentrated on kneading Sam's back. "I should say that we have been quite successful at establishing friendly relations with these people. It is reassuring to know that relationships such as ours are not regarded negatively by the majority of the mogul's people."

"Yes, they are pretty enlightened for such 'primitive' people." Sam eyed the reclusive Stiles, who sat in a far corner wrapped in a big towel that covered him from his knees to his chest, behaving more modestly than Hanuman's daughters, who were letting their lovely breasts hang out above the towels knotted around their slender waists. Even their mother was topless as she massaged their father; her breasts were still full and firm for her age. Every now and then, Hanuman would lean back and rest his head against them like pillows. Bohana would laugh and stroke his face. So did the other women who were massaging their men. The Innans were not modest about showing their affections. Stiles was the only man there, aside from Sam and Spock, who didn't have a woman fussing over him.

"What is it with him?" Sam wondered aloud, peering at Stiles through the aromatic steam, created by pouring water brewed with fragrant herbs over heated rocks. "Any other man would be enjoying all this female attention, not to mention the sight of all these bare breasts."

"Any heterosexual man, you mean," Spock murmured in his ear. "It is possible that Mr. Stiles may share our own inclination."

"What?" Sam looked over his shoulder at Spock with wide-eyed wonder. "Are you saying you think Stiles may be-" He hesitated, unsure of which term to use.

"It would explain his hostility toward our relationship, which may be motivated by envy rather than disapproval, as well as his violent reaction to the offer of a woman to warm his bed last night. Denial often takes the form of hostility." 

The light bulb went on over Sam's head as he stared at Stiles, trying so desperately to fit in with his fellow officers while avoiding the womanly charms being flaunted before him. "Of course!" he said softly. "Nobody's more antigay than a closeted gay. Just as nobody hates being called a thief more than a real thief, and no woman hates being called a whore more than a real whore."

"Your analogy is simplistic, but essentially true. How do you intend to deal with Mr. Stiles' problem?"

Sam shrugged. "How do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped, Spock? First he has to be honest enough to admit he has a problem. Then he has to be brave enough to tell someone about it. Either me or Doctor McCoy. If he confides in either of us, we'll recommend him for counseling at the next starbase. But then he has to be brave enough to attend the counseling sessions."

"Stiles is a very stubborn man. His pride is immense, even for a human. It never fails to astound me how humans can deny themselves the help they need due to the emotion of pride. Or shame, its' mirror twin."

"Well, let's not shame him any further by calling attention to his problem publicly. That's not going to make him any more willing to seek help. Let's just let him know that we know-discreetly, of course-and that there is help available if he wants it."

"By all means, let us avoid publicly confronting Mr. Stiles, lest we drive him into deeper denial. As his commanding officer, it is your prerogative to approach him privately regarding his problem. Or you may enlist the help of the ship's chief medical officer. Either way, it will help resolve the problem of Stiles' constant hostility towards us."

"Not to mention anybody else whose lifestyle clashes with the way he was raised," Sam muttered as he stared at Stiles sitting on his solitary ledge, feeling pity for the self-hating homosexual who was wrapped in denial as completely as the towel that covered him. "Come on, Spock, let's go cool down and get dressed. I need coffee."

NINE

They didn't have coffee, but the hot milk beverage flavored with butter and spices--klaah without the kick--did a lot to warm Sam inside and disperse some of the gloom he felt. So did the hot cereal, consisting of grain mush with honey and butter. It brought back poignant memories of his childhood on a dairy farm. After breakfast, he took the first step of his well-thought out plan, which was to contact the ENTERPRISE and order them to send down a certain crewman to assist Scotty.

When Ensign Ciccone arrived, Sam sent him and Scotty to the tribe's hydroponic garden with orders to study the sun lamps and recreate the technology via reverse engineering, hopefully finding a way to improve upon it, making it simpler and easier to maintain. Before they left, Sam allowed them to overhear him asking Hanuman if he and Spock could study the tribal archives to learn the history of their people since the great winter began.

"Of course, Captain," Hanuman agreed. "My eldest son will accompany you to assist in translating our archives. Your colleagues from the ICARUS had some difficulty understanding our pictorial script."

"Yes, I would appreciate any help you can give us in discovering why your world suffers from eternal winter." As he and Spock left the cavern with the mogul, Sam sneaked a peek over his shoulder and saw one of his crewmen following him with his eyes. He guessed that he, Spock, and Hanuman the Younger would soon have company in the archives, and that the person in question would not be interested in transcribing Innan hieroglyphics.

After seeing them settled comfortably on a fur-covered bench before a trestle table loaded with ancient scrolls made from cured hides, surrounded by shelves full of more recent books made from tree bark, Hanuman excused himself, saying he had to pay a visit to the healer's hall to see which of the warriors was fit to hunt. "We are running short on meat, otherwise I would be reluctant to send out hunters on a day like this. Our weather woman, who studies the skies to give us warning of weather conditions, says we shall have more snow before noon. So I cannot send the hunters too far, even if they are sound of health."

"A wise decision," Sam commended him. "Perhaps you would be better off slaughtering some of your older livestock to supplement the meat supply."

"Oh, not yet. All we have are the mulch goats, no billies. We must wait until the pregnant ones drop their kids, so we can see how many are male. Once we are sure of more breeders, we can dispose of the older goats." With that, Hanuman took his leave.

Sam and Spock became very busy studying scrolls for the next three hours, both of them relying on Hanuman the Younger to translate the hieroglyphics. Spock soon got the knack of the script and was writing out his own translations with only minimal assistance. Sam took a little longer, but eventually he found the pattern too. 

A half hour before noon, Hanuman the Younger excused himself to order lunch. "I shall return with food," he told his guests. "Please handle the records carefully while I am gone."

"Certainly," said Sam without looking up. "Take your time. This is fascinating." He and Spock had their heads bent over the same scroll, each one writing his own translation on a separate tricorder. He was so engrossed with the Innan chronicle, he didn't see the slight smile Spock was giving him at hearing his own catchword on his bondmate's lips.

Minutes after the younger Hanuman's footsteps faded in the distance, Sam heard another set of footsteps approaching. Soft, hesitant, with many pauses. Obviously someone who didn't want to be heard approaching. He put down his tricorder and raised his head to look Spock in the eye. "Do you hear that?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Footsteps," Spock whispered, his head cocked to one side and an intent look on his face. "Not Innan. One of ours."

"Wonder why he doesn't come in?" Sam murmured.

"A logical guess would be that he is either waiting for you to come out alone, or for me to come out, leaving you alone." 

Sam eyed him shrewdly. "So you know what he's here for?" 

"Yes." Spock looked at him with his heart in his eyes. "Is this why you wanted us to be separated from the rest of the landing party, Jim? So you could use yourself as bait?"

Sam leaned so close to him, his breath was on Spock's lips as he whispered. "How else are we going to find out who's trying to kill me?"

"Don't go out there, Jim," Spock pleaded softly, laying one hand atop of Sam's as it rested on the table. "Let me go and apprehend whoever is waiting to ambush you." 

"No, Spock. This is my move. Let me leave first, then count to ten and follow me. I'll go as far as the privy Hanuman showed us on the way in. Whoever's out there waiting will have to make his move before I go inside."

"Just be careful, Jim." Spock squeezed his hand tightly. "I wish I had been able to teach you the Vulcan Neck Pinch."

Sam laughed softly. "You're not the only one." He started to rise, but Spock pulled him back down and gave him a quick kiss. 

"Be careful," he repeated as he released him. 

"You just gave me a real good reason to be," Sam assured him. Getting up, he said loudly, "I need a bathroom break, Spock. Guess I'll go to the privy down the hall."

"Very well, Captain," Spock replied aloud, playing along. "I shall remain here, working."

Sam left the archives, making sure his boot heels thudded loudly on the stone floor so that whoever was outside would know he was coming. He turned to the right and headed down the corridor towards the privy by the tunnel entrance, walking with the rapid pace of a man who needs to relieve himself. Before he had gotten halfway down the torchlit passage, he saw someone standing in the entrance, right by the privy. It wasn't an Innan; he wore a Starfleet uniform and had a phaser in his right hand.

Sam stopped and stared at him. "Stiles? What are you doing here?"

Stiles looked over his shoulder furtively, looked back at him and said in a low voice, "Looking for you, Captain. Looks like I got here at the right time, too." He froze, staring over Sam's shoulder. Then he shouted, "Get down!" and fired right at him. 

Sam hit the ground and heard someone returning phaser fire behind him. "Spock!" he cried. "It's Stiles!"

He saw Stiles get hit by a bolt of phaser fire and collapse face down, phaser in hand. "I got him, Captain," said the one behind him. It wasn't Spock's voice. Sam got up on his knees and looked over his shoulder. He saw young, blond Ensign Ciccone standing there, holding his phaser, looking very upset. 

"Ciccone? What are you doing here?" Sam repeated himself. "Why aren't you helping Scotty?"

"I had to find you, sir. So I told Mr. Scot I had to go to the bathroom and got here as quick as I could. It's a good thing I got here ahead of Lieutenant Stiles."

"It certainly is!" Sam got to his feet, dusted himself off and came toward the young man with a grateful smile. "Nice work, Ciccone. I never would have suspected Stiles was the Klingon spy."

"That's because he isn't, sir," Ciccone said solemnly, now pointing his phaser at Sam. "I'm the one who's supposed to kill you." 

Sam froze, staring in horrified fascination at the phaser in the young man's hand as he thought: *Oh, boy! Talk about an O. Henry ending!*

"I'm sorry, sir," Ciccone said, averting his sad blue eyes. "I didn't want to do this. But the Klingons are holding my father hostage. He's a xenoanthropologist, he made the mistake of looking for artifacts on an uncharted Klingon colony planet. When they captured him, he told them he had a son in Starfleet, assigned to Captain Kirk's ship. So they got in touch with me and told me if I didn't kill you in 48 hours, my father would die. I'm sorry, Captain Kirk, I really am." His hand trembled as he held the phaser on him, ready to pull the trigger.

"Don't do it, Ciccone." Sam spoke calmly, trying to reason with him. "We can rescue your father. Just tell the Klingons you got me and arrange to meet them somewhere. Tell them to bring your father and we'll-"

Ciccone gasped and collapsed, falling to his knees as Spock, who had come up quietly behind him, applied pressure to the big vein on the right side of his neck. The Vulcan looked down at the unconscious young man with a strange expression of anger mixed with pity, before stepping over him and walking briskly towards his bondmate.

"Spock! Thank God!" Sam came into his arms without hesitation, hugging him as hard as he could.

"T'hy'la," was all Spock said, in a husky voice that betrayed his repressed emotions, as he held him tight.

Sam heard a familiar whooshing sound coming from behind Spock and looked over the Vulcan's broad shoulder to see Al stepping out of the invisible door from the Imaging Chamber. Looking as pale as the snow aboveground, his usual natty wardrobe replaced by a USMC sweatsuit that looked sweat-stained and rumpled, as if he had come directly from a workout, he ran over to them saying, "Sam! You're okay, aren't you? Say you're okay, Sam!"

"I'm okay. I'm so glad to see you," Sam said, to both his friend and to Kirk's lover.

"Oh, Geezus! What a relief!" Al sighed as he rubbed one arm across his pale, sweaty face. "I rushed here straight from the gym after Gushie came running in with another probability report from Ziggy. She linked with the ENTERPRISE's computer last time I was here and asked it to scan the ship for Klingon life signs. When it didn't find any, she asked it to locate any communications to or from the Klingons. Well, the ship's computer found an incoming transmission from a Klingon ship just out of scanner range, addressed to Ensign Ciccone, at 0400 hours the day of Kirk's accident in Engineering. So Ziggy revised her estimations and said there was now a 98% probability that Jim Kirk was about to be killed by a member of his own crew.

"When I read that, I almost broke both ankles jumping off the stationary bike. I ran down the hall like I was in the New York City Marathon to get to the Imaging Chamber so I could warn you. But I see that Spock was way ahead of me."

Sam nodded in mute agreement as Spock continued to hold him close. "What happens now?" he asked Al.

"We must summon the doctor," Spock answered. "Have him tend to both Stiles and Ciccone."

"Oh! Of course," Sam agreed. He let go of Spock to look down the corridor at Stiles' unconscious form. "I thought his homophobia had turned him into a killer. But he came here to warn me. I guess his sense of duty was stronger than his disapproval of our relationship."

"It would appear so," Spock said cautiously. "As for Ensign Ciccone, do you intend to press charges?"

"No, it wasn't his fault, poor kid. He was desperate to save his father. I told him we would rescue his father and we will." Sam got that determined look on his face that Al was all too familiar with: the look of an upright man who keeps his word, come what may. 

"Very well, Jim. Let us return to the ENTERPRISE before we make further plans." Spock got out his communicator, flipped it open and said, "Spock to McCoy. We need you at the archives. Bring Security with you." 

TEN

Sam Beckett dragged himself into Captain Kirk's cabin at the end of a very long day and collapsed on the bunk. He lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things that had happened since this morning, until his eyelids drooped and he dozed off. He didn't even wake up when the invisible door whooshed open and Al appeared.

His holographic friend entered, now wearing a black leather jacket with a picture of Elvis on the back, a white tee shirt with "I've Been To Graceland" written above a picture of Elvis' home in Memphis, designer jeans and the obligatory blue suede shoes on his feet. He tiptoed to Sam's bedside and stood looking down at him tenderly. Finally he said, "Sam, you awake?" 

"I am now," said Sam without opening his eyes. "What is it, Al?"

"Well, first of all, it's Elvis Presley Week at the Majestic Theater back in our time. In honor of the King's birthday, they're showing nothing but Elvis movies all week."

Sam opened his eyes and studied his friend's outfit. "And I'll bet you've been to see every one of them." 

"Yep," said Al with a grin as he lit up a fresh cigar. "I've already seen Love Me Tender, Clambake and Viva Las Vegas. Tonight it's Blue Hawaii."

"What about Kissing Cousins?"

"That's tomorrow," said Al without skipping a beat.

Sam chuckled. "Right. And I suppose you've been bringing a different girl to the theater every night."

"No, I've been going alone. Can't seem to find a girl who's interested in Elvis Presley nowadays."

"There must be plenty at the theater."

"Yeah, but they're not alone. They either have a boyfriend or husband in tow, or a gaggle of giggling girlfriends. I don't like crowds, especially when I'm the third wheel."

"Funny," Sam mused, "I seem to remember a time when you were into threesomes. Or was it only that one time?"

Al gaped at him. "You remember that? Sam, I'm shocked! I thought you swore you would do your best to forget that night ever happened?"

"Seeing you in that outfit reminded me. You wanted to give me a wild weekend to remember before I was married, so before my official bachelor party we went to Memphis together. After spending all day Saturday at Graceland-that was where you got that shirt, as a matter of fact-we went to a local blues club and listened to B.B. King play till two in the morning. Then you talked one of the local girls into coming back to our hotel room with us, to have sex with us both." Sam sighed, closing his eyes in reminiscence. "If I hadn't drunk so much bourbon and coke, I never would have gone through with it."

"It must have been the bourbon and coke," Al agreed. "You were wild that night, Sam. I never saw you so uninhibited. After the girl passed out, that is." He looked at his friend affectionately, feeling warm all over from the memory of mutual pleasure shared in a hotel room in Memphis. "You didn't have to take care of me after she passed out, Sam. It was supposed to be your night."

"But it was your turn with her," Sam said dreamily, eyes half-closed as he lay there savoring the memory. "I had already come, and when I looked up, there you were, ready for action. But she passed out after she came. I didn't want you to force yourself on an unconscious woman. But I didn't want to leave you hanging either. So I took care of you myself."

"Ah, Sam." Al shook his head at him, smiling. "You're such a gentleman. Only a true gentleman would give his best friend oral sex to keep him from taking advantage of an unconscious woman."

"It was the least I could do, after you went to all the trouble to arrange everything for me." Sam closed his eyes and drifted off for a few moments. When he opened them again, he saw Al sitting beside the bed. "Al, how could you-?"

"I brought a chair into the Imaging Chamber while you were conked out," Al explained. "So tell me what happened after I left earlier today."

Sam yawned. "Well, when my new friend the Mogul D'Innana found out about the attempt on my life, he offered to have Ensign Ciccone taken above ground and stoned to death by his people. That's their traditional punishment for anybody who attempts to kill a chief. But I insisted that Ciccone deserved to be judged by his own people. So they let us go back up to the surface, where we beamed back to the ENTERPRISE..."

Sam summed up his day in a few well-chosen words as Al sat quietly by his bedside, recording everything on Ziggy's handlink. He heard Sam describe Ciccone's interrogation, the younger man tearfully expressing his fears for his elderly father's safety at the Klingons' hands. A background check had proven the existence of Professor Michelangelo Ciccone, an elderly xenoanthropologist known for excessive zeal when exploring the past. Sam outlined the plan he had come up with for rescuing the professor, his promise to Ciccone that they would do their best to get his father out alive.

He told about his visit to sickbay to see Stiles, still groggy from phaser shock-Ciccone had only stunned him, intending to put the phaser in his hand afterwards and accuse him of Kirk's murder-Stiles' realization that Ciccone had meant to kill the captain yesterday and was going to try again today after Stiles saw him slipping away while Scotty was busy, his decision to stand by his captain despite his disapproval of Kirk's lifestyle, and, finally, his painful admission of his own homosexuality and his jealousy of Kirk and Spock's relationship. Sam had praised him for his valor, promised him a commendation and urged him to seek counseling for his internal conflict. He then told Al how he had agreed to go into seclusion for 24 hours while they announced his death, hoping to lure the Klingons into contacting Ciccone again. 

"Well, that's it," Sam wrapped it up. "What are Ziggy's odds on the attempt at rescuing Professor Ciccone?" 

Al tapped a few buttons and listened to the squealing as Ziggy crunched her numbers. "She gives Kirk a 50-50 chance of rescuing the professor on his own, but a 99% chance of rescuing him with Spock. She also gives Stiles an 80% probability of seeking counseling, with a 20% chance of transferring off the ship. But the odds are he'll chose to stay aboard the ENTERPRISE instead. You may have saved his life, Sam. Ziggy says there was a 50% chance he would have committed suicide within a year, 'cause of his problem. Now he has a chance to survive and thrive."

"To live long and prosper," Sam quoted Spock with a smile.

"So do the Innans. Or the Lazareans, whatever you want to call them. Ziggy gives 'em an 80% chance of joining the Federation within a year, giving their economy a real shot in the arm. But there's also a 20% chance that the Klingons will invade them before their membership is finalized, to ‘persuade’ them to become a Klingon colony instead. You better recommend that Starfleet have ships patrolling this section of space for a while."

"I've already thought of that and put it in my report. I'm liable to leap out at any time, so I don't want to leave any unfinished business."

Just then, they both heard the sound of the cabin door whooshing open. "Jim?" said a familiar baritone voice.

"Speaking of unfinished business..." muttered Sam.

Al grinned again, wiggled his eyebrows and twiddled his cigar like Groucho Marx as Spock entered the cabin. "I better leave you two alone. If you're going to leap out at any minute, you better say your goodbyes now." He stood up, tapped on his handlink, watched the invisible door open up before him, started to walk through it, then remembered the chair and came running back. He picked it up (a standard folding chair materialized in his hand as he lifted it) and headed for the door again. "Good luck, Sam!" Al called to him over his shoulder. 

Sam watched him disappear, then sighed and turned to Spock, blinking as if he had just woken up. "Yes, Spock?"

"Are you all right, Jim? I could not help hearing you talking to yourself outside the door," Spock said apologetically.

"Oh, I must have been thinking out loud again. I do that a lot when you're not around," Sam told him. "I've gotten so used to bouncing things off of you, when you're not around I just go over everything that's on my mind and try to come up with a solution. Or just to remind myself what to take care of later, so I don't leave any loose ends."

"I think you have pretty much taken care of everything today, Jim. The only problem now is making sure that you remain in seclusion until we reach the Klingon colony world where Ensign Ciccone's father is being held."

Sam yawned. "You don't have to worry about me going anywhere for a while, Spock. I'm so tired, I can't even move."

"I can see you are fatigued," Spock commented, studying the man on the bed closely. "That should ensure you remain in your quarters for the next eight hours, at least."

"At least," Sam agreed, closing his eyes as he lay back against the pillow.

"However, our estimated time of arrival at that Klingon colony is 12.3 hours. So something must be done to make sure that you do not leave this cabin before 0900 tomorrow."

"Really?" Sam smiled, hearing the suggestive undertone in the deep voice. "And what would you suggest I do during that interval, First Officer?"

"I would be willing to offer you diversion." Sam felt the right side of the bed give a little as Spock sat down on the edge. He sensed the taller man leaning over him, looking down at his prostate form. "Perhaps you would enjoy a night of intimacy with your bondmate?"

"Perhaps." Sam kept his eyes closed, but didn't stop smiling as he felt Spock coming nearer, putting his hands on either side of Sam's head and lowering his head until Sam could feel his warm breath on his face.

Spock hovered over him expectantly, waiting for his bondmate to give the word. Sam decided to stop teasing him and said, "Come on, Spock, what are you waiting for? Divert me."

Spock needed no further encouragement. He kissed Sam gently as he laid his long body down upon him, covering him like a warm, living comforter. Sam relaxed and enjoyed the kiss, savoring the feeling of warm, soft lips, the slight rasp of a closely shaved whiskered face against his, the musky man scent of healthy Vulcan male. It felt so good, so safe and warm in this man's arms that the memory of that night in the Memphis hotel came flooding back to him, when he laid in Al's arms after pleasuring him.

Tears came to his eyes as he wondered when he would ever feel this safe and warm again, in the arms of a man he knew. What would become of Donna and the child she was supposed to have? Was she already having it? They did spend some time together after his brief return to his own time, when he and Al had accidentally switched places. But he had gone back into the Quantum Leap Accelerator for Al's sake. When he finally reached the end of his journey through time and space, would he go back for Al's sake or for Donna's? 

Before he could think any more about the choice he would have to make, he felt a familiar tingling throughout his body and knew that he was about to leap. He embraced Spock and kissed him back as intensely as he could, which pleased the Vulcan a great deal. *Goodbye, Spock, he thought. *Wish I'd had more time to get to know you, in the Biblical sense. I hope you live long and prosper with Jim.* 

Then he leaped, dissolving into energy in Spock's arms and disappearing, to be replaced by the real Jim Kirk nanoseconds later. "Oh, Spock!" Kirk gasped joyfully, finding himself in his lover's arms. "It's so good to be home!"

"Yes, T'hy'la," Spock agreed with him. "It is good to be home with you." 

EPILOGUE

Doctor Samuel Beckett materialized in the body of a man who seemed to be standing in the middle of a rainforest. He looked around for some identifying landmarks, saw palm trees and lush greenery all around him, and, way off in the distance, a concrete wall.

*Okay, so I'm not in a rainforest. Where am I, then?* He looked down and saw a little pool at his feet. It appeared to be a lagoon, located behind a private house. In it he saw the reflection of the man he had leaped into: a dark, handsome Latino in his late forties, his cheeks slightly scarred from smallpox or acne, a mustache on his upper lip, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt without a tie and black slacks. He was also wearing a black leather belt with a gold buckle that had initials on it. He looked away from the water and down at himself to see the initials M.C. Suddenly he heard someone coming up behind him. He froze into position and waited, pretending to be studying his reflection in the water. 

In the lagoon he saw the reflection of another man walking up behind him. This man was younger, a little bit taller, and absolutely gorgeous; long, blond hair, green eyes and a sensuous mouth in a suntanned face, with a long, slender body clad in a short, white terrycloth robe that did little to conceal his muscular physique. He came right up to Sam, put his arms around his waist and laid his shaggy blond head on Sam's shoulder.

"Come on, Marty," the blond man purred. "Supper's ready. And so am I. If we're lucky, we won't get any calls from the station tonight." 

As Sam reached up to stroke the blond man's head, he thought: *Oh, boy! Here I go again...*

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> And that was all she wrote! If anybody wants to continue the story from here, consider this a challenge. What happens when Sam Beckett leaps into Martin Castillo of Miami Vice?


End file.
